TILLIE: 

A 

MENNONITE  MAID 
HELEN -R- MARTIN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Tillie 

A  Mennonite  Maid 


:  The  girl's  fair  face  looking  out  from  a  halo  of 
tender  little  brown  curls." 


A  Mennonite  Maid 

A   STORY  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANIA  DUTCH 
By 

Helen  Reimensnyder  Martin 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
FLORENCE   SCOVEL   SHINN 


NEW  YORK 
GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
THB  CENTURY  Co. 

Published  February,  1904 

Reprinted  March,  April,  June,  July, 

September  (twice),  1904 

December,  1904 

March,  1905 

August,  1906 

February,  190C 

September,  1908 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i  "On,  I  LOVE  HER!  I  LOVE  HER!"  ...  3 
ii  "  I  'M  GOING  TO  LEARN  You  ONCE  ! "  .  .  17 
m  "WHAT'S  HURTIN'  You,  TILUE?"  ...  26 

iv  "THE  Doc"  COMBINES  BUSINESS  AND 

PLEASURE 38 

v  "  NOVELS  AIN'T  MORAL,  Doc ! " 53 

vi  JAKE  GETZ  IN  A  QUANDARY  ......    62 

vii  "THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  PUMP-EYE"  ....    70 

viii  Miss  MARGARET'S  ERRAND 77 

ix  "  I  'LL  DO  MY  DARN  BEST,  TEACHER  !  *  .    .    91 

x  ADAM  SCHUNK'S  FUNERAL 102 

xi  "Pop!  I  FEEL  TO  BE  PLAIN" 109 

xn  ABSALOM  KEEPS  COMPANY 122 

xm  EZRA  HERR,  PEDAGOGUE 139 

xiv  THE  HARVARD  GRADUATE     , 144 

xv  THE  WACKERNAGELS  AT  HOME 163 

xvi  THE  WACKERNAGELS  "CONWERSE"    .    .    .  185 
xvii  THE  TEACHER  MEETS  ABSALOM     ....  196 

xvin  TILLIE  REVEALS  HERSELF 208 

v 


623047 


Contents 

CHAPTER  FACE 

xix  TILLIE  TELLS  A  LIE 222 

xx  TILLIE  is  "SET  BACK" 236 

xxi  "  I  'LL  MARRY  HIM  TO-MORROW  ! "     ...  253 

xxn  THE  Doc  CONCOCTS  A  PLOT 271 

xxin  SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW 278 

xxiv  THE  REVOLT  OF  TILLIE 294 

xxv  GETZ  "LEARNS"  TILLIE 309 

xxvi  TTLLTF/S  LAST  FIGHT  .  328 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTKATIONS 

PAGE 

"  The  girl's  fair  face  looking  out  from  a  halo  of  tender 
little  brown  curls  " Frontispiece 

" '  The  only  thing  I  took  particular  notice  to,  about  Girls, 
is  that  they  are  always  picking  lint  off  each  other, 
still'" 9 

" '  What 's  the  matter,  dear? '  she  asked  "        .        .        .29 

" '  I  don't  mind  if  my  wife  is  smart,  so  long  as  she  don't 

bother  me  any!'" 49 

" '  I  am  going  to  be  married  the  week  after  school  closes' "    85 
"  The  girl  swept  past  her  " 97 

" '  Gawd  bless  you,  my  daughter,  and  help  you  to  serve 

the  Lord  acceptable ! ' " 119 

"  She  scrubbed  his  fat,  sunburned  neck  "...  135 
"  He  interposed  and  took  it  from  her  "  .        .        .        .  159 

" '  Unless  you  leave  me  be,  I  'm  not  sitting  on  the  settee 

alongside  you  at  all'" 199 

"  Tillie  starod  up  at  him,  a  new  wonder  in  her  eyes  "      .  213 
"  Amanda,  brilliant  in  a  scarlet  frock  and  pink  ribbons  "  217 

" '  Oh,  Aunty  Em,  I  love  you  like  I  've  never  loved  any 
one— except  Miss  Margaret  and—' "  233 

vii 


List  of  Illustrations 

BMP 
«  The  brethren  came  to  reason  with  Tfflie  "    .        .        .245 

"'Stop  that,  you  brute!'" 263 

"  She  sat  down  on  a  snow-covered  log  and  opened  Fair- 
childs's  letter" 291 

"  She  no  longer  wore  her  nun-like  garb  "...  315 
« «  Well,  Tillie— » the  doctor  said,  with  a  long  sigh  "       .  319 


viii 


Tillie 
A  Mennonite  Maid 


Tillie 

A  Mennonite  Maid 


A   STORY   OF   THE 
PENNSYLVANIA   DUTCH 


"OH,  i  LOVE  HER!  i  LOVE  HER!" 

rillLLIE  'S  slender  little  body  thrilled  with  a  pecu- 
JL  liar  ecstasy  as  she  stepped  upon  the  platform 
and  felt  her  close  proximity  to  the  teacher — so  close 
that  she  could  catch  the  sweet,  wonderful  fragrance 
of  her  clothes  and  see  the  heave  and  fall  of  her  bosom. 
Once  Tillie 's  head  had  rested  against  that  motherly 
bosom.  She  had  fainted  in  school  one  morning  after 
a  day  and  evening  of  hard,  hard  work  in  her  father's 
celery-beds,  followed  by  a  chastisement  for  being 
caught  with  a  "story-book";  and  she  had  come  out 
of  her  faint  to  find  herself  in  the  heaven  of  sitting 
on  Miss  Margaret's  lap,  her  head  against  her  breast 
and  Miss  Margaret's  soft  hand  smoothing  her  cheek 
and  hair.  And  it  was  in  that  blissful  moment  that 
Tillie  had  discovered,  for  the  first  time  in  her  young 
existence,  that  life  could  be  worth  while.  Not  within 
her  memory  had  any  one  ever  caressed  her  before, 
or  spoken  to  her  tenderly,  and  in  that  fascinating  tone 
of  anxious  concern. 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Afterward,  Tillie  often  tried  to  faint  again  in 
school;  but,  such  is  Nature's  perversity,  she  never 
could  succeed. 

School  had  just  been  called  after  the  noon  recess, 
and  Miss  Margaret  was  standing  before  her  desk  with 
a  watchful  eye  on  the  troops  of  children  crowding  in 
from  the  playground  to  their  seats,  when  the  little 
girl  stepped  to  her  side  on  the  platform. 

This  country  school-house  was  a  dingy  little  build- 
ing in  the  heart  of  Lancaster  County,  the  home  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Dutch.  Miss  Margaret  had  been  the 
teacher  only  a  few  months,  and  having  come  from 
Kentucky  and  not  being  ' '  a  Millersville  Normal, ' '  she 
differed  quite  radically  from  any  teacher  they  had 
ever  had  in  New  Canaan.  Indeed,  she  was  so  wholly 
different  from  any  one  Tillie  had  ever  seen  in  her 
life,  that  to  the  child 's  adoring  heart  she  was  nothing 
less  than  a  miracle.  Surely  no  one  but  Cinderella 
had  ever  been  so  beautiful !  And  how  different,  too, 
were  her  clothes  from  those  of  the  other  young  ladies 
of  New  Canaan,  and,  oh,  so  much  prettier— though  not 
nearly  so  fancy;  and  she  didn't  "speak  her  words" 
as  other  people  of  Tillie 's  acquaintance  spoke.  To 
Tillie  it  was  celestial  music  to  hear  Miss  Margaret 
say,  for  instance,  "buttah"  when  she  meant  but- 
ter-r-r,  and  "windo"  for  windah.  "It  gives  her  sucl* 
a  nice  sound  when  she  talks,"  thought  Tillie. 

Sometimes  Miss  Margaret's  ignorance  of  the  dialect 
of  the  neighborhood  led  to  complications,  as  in  her 
conversation  just  now  with  Tillie. 

"Well?"  she  inquired,  lifting  the  little  girl's  chin 


"Oh,  I  love  her!   I  love  her!" 

with  her  forefinger  as  Tillie  stood  at  her  side  and 
thereby  causing  that  small  worshiper  to  blush  with 
radiant  pleasure.  "What  is  it,  honey?  " 

Miss  Margaret  always  made  Tillie  feel  that  she 
liked  her.  Tillie  wondered  how  Miss  Margaret  could 
like  her!  What  was  there  to  like  ?  No  one  had  ever 
liked  her  before. 

' '  It  wonders  me ! ' '  Tillie  often  whispered  to  herself 
with  throbbing  heart. 

"Please,  Miss  Margaret/'  said  the  child,  "pop  says 
to  ast  you  will  you  give  me  the  darst  to  go  home  till 
half-past  three  this  after?" 

"If  you  go  home  till  half-past  three,  you  need  not 
come  back,  honey — it  wouldn't  be  worth  while,  when 
school  closes  at  four." 

"But  I  don't  mean,"  said  Tillie,  in  puzzled  sur- 
prise, "that  I  want  to  go  home  and  come  back.  I: 
sayed  whether  I  have  the  darst  to  go  home  till 
half -past  three.  Pop  he  's  went  to  Lancaster,  and 
he  '11  be  back  till  half-past  three  a 'ready,  and  he 
says  then  I  got  to  be  home  to  help  him  in  the  celery- 
beds." 

Miss  Margaret  held  her  pretty  head  on  one  side, 
considering,  as  she  looked  down  into  the  little  girl's 
upturned  face.  "Is  this  a  conundrum,  Tillie?  How 
can  your  father  be  in  Lancaster  now  and  yet  be  home 
until  half-past  three?  It's  uncanny.  Unless,"  she 
added,  a  ray  of  light  coming  to  her,— "unless  'till' 
means  by.  Your  father  will  be  home  by  half-past 
three  and  wants  you  then?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.   I  can't  talk  just  so  right/'  said  Til- 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

lie  apologetically,  "like  what  you  can.  Yes,  some- 
times I  say  my  we's  like  my  w's,  yet!" 

Miss  Margaret  laughed.  ' '  Bless  your  little  heart ! ' ' 
she  said,  running  her  fingers  through  Tillie 's  hair. 
"But  you  would  rather  stay  in  school  until  four, 
wouldn't  you,  than  go  home  to  help  your  father  in 
the  celery-beds  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Tillie  wistfully,  "but  pop 
he  has  to  get  them  beds  through  till  Saturday  market 
a 'ready,  and  so  we  got  to  get  'em  done  behind  Thurs- 
day or  Friday  yet. ' ' 

"  If  I  say  you  can 't  go  home  ? ' ' 

Tillie  colored  all  over  her  sensitive  little  face  as, 
instead  of  answering,  she  nervously  worked  her  toe 
into  a  crack  in  the  platform. 

"But  your  father  can't  blame  you,  honey,  if  I  won't 
let  you  go  home." 

"He  would  n't  stop  to  ast  me  was  it  my  fault,  Miss 
Margaret.  If  I  wasn't  there  on  time,  he'd  just — " 

"All  right,  dear,  you  may  go  at  half-past  three, 
then,"  Miss  Margaret  gently  said,  patting  the  child's 
shoulder.  "As  soon  as  you  have  written  your  com- 
position. ' ' 

"Yes,  ma'am,  Miss  Margaret." 

It  was  hard  for  Tillie,  as  she  sat  at  her  desk  that 
afternoon,  to  fix  her  wandering  attention  upon  the 
writing  of  her  composition,  so  fascinating  was  it 
just  to  revel  idly  in  the  sense  of  the  touch  of  that  loved 
hand  that  had  stroked  her  hair,  and  the  tone  of  that 
caressing  voice  that  had  called  her  "honey." 

Miss   Margaret    always    said   to   the   composition 


"Oh,  I  love  her  I    I  love  her!" 

classes,  "Just  try  to  write  simply  of  what  you  see  or 
feel,  and  then  you  will  be  sure  to  write  a  good  'com- 
position.' "  Tillie  was  moved  this  afternoon  to  pour 
out  on  paper  all  that  she  "felt"  about  her  divinity. 
But  she  had  some  misgivings  as  to  the  fitness  of  this. 

She  dwelt  upon  the  thought  of  it,  however,  dream- 
ily gazing  out  of  the  window  near  which  she  sat, 
into  the  blue  sky  of  the  October  afternoon — until 
presently  her  ear  was  caught  by  the  sound  of  Miss 
Margaret's  voice  speaking  to  Absalom  Puntz,  who 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  composition  class,  now  before 
her  on  the  platform. 

"You  may  read  your  composition,  Absalom." 

Absalom  was  one  of  "the  big  boys,"  but  though 
he  was  sixteen  years  old  and  large  for  his  age,  his 
slowness  in  learning  classed  him  with  the  children  of 
twelve  or  thirteen.  However,  as  learning  was  consid- 
ered in  New  Canaan  a  superfluous  and  wholly  un- 
necessary adjunct  to  the  means  of  living,  Absalom's 
want  of  agility  in  imbibing  erudition  never  troubled 
him,  nor  did  it  in  the  least  call  forth  the  pity  or  con- 
tempt of  his  schoolmates. 

Three  times  during  the  morning  session  he  had 
raised  his  hand  to  announce  stolidly  to  his  long-suffer- 
ing teacher,  "I  can't  think  of  no  subjeck";  and  at 
last  Miss  Margaret  had  relaxed  her  Spartan  resolu- 
tion to  make  him  do  his  own  thinking  and  had  helped 
him  out. 

"Write  of  something  that  is  interesting  you  just 
at  present.  Is  n  't  there  some  one  thing  you  care  more 
about  than  other  things?"  she  had  asked. 

7 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Absalom  had  stared  at  her  blankly  without  replying. 

"Now,  Absalom,"  she  had  said  desperately,  "I 
think  I  know  one  thing  you  have  been  interested  in 
lately— write  me  a  composition  on  Girls." 

Of  course  the  school  had  greeted  the  advice  with 
a  laugh,  and  Miss  Margaret  had  smiled  with  them, 
though  she  had  not  meant  to  be  facetious. 

Absalom,  however,  had  taken  her  suggestion  seri- 
ously. 

"Is  your  composition  written,  Absalom?"  she  was 
asking  as  Tillie  turned  from  the  window,  her  contem- 
plation of  her  own  composition  arrested  by  the  sound 
of  the  voice  which  to  her  was  the  sweetest  music  in 
the  world. 

"No'm,"  sullenly  answered  Absalom.  "I  didn't 
get  it  through  till  it  was  time  a 'ready." 

"But,  Absalom,  you  've  been  at  it  this  whole 
blessed  day !  You  've  not  done  another  thing ! ' ' 

"I  wrote  off  some  of  it." 

"Well,"  sighed  Miss  Margaret,  "let  us  hear  what 
you  have  done." 

Absalom  unfolded  a  sheet  of  paper  and  laboriously 
read: 

"GIRLS 

"The  only  thing  I  took  particular  notice  to,  about 
Girls,  is  that  they  are  always  picking  lint  off  each 
other,  still." 

He  stopped  and  slowly  folded  Ms  paper. 

"But  go  on,"  said  Miss  Margaret.    "Bead  it  all." 

8 


"'The  only  thing  I  took  particular  notice  to,  about 

Girls,  is  that  they  are  always  picking 

lint  off  each  other,  still.' " 


"Oh,  I  love  her!    I  love  her!" 

"That  's  all  the  fu'ther  I  got." 

Miss  Margaret  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  then 
suddenly  lifted  the  lid  of  her  desk,  evidently  to  search 
for  something.  When  she  closed  it  her  face  was  quite 
grave. 

"We  '11  have  the  reading-lesson  now,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

Tillie  tried  to  withdraw  her  attention  from  the 
teacher  and  fix  it  on  her  own  work,  but  the  gay,  glad 
tone  in  which  Lizzie  Harnish  was  reading  the  lines, 

"When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit—  " 

hopelessly  checked  the  flow  of  her  ideas. 

This  class  was  large,  and  by  the  time  Absalom's 
turn  to  read  was  reached,  "Thanatopsis"  had  been 
finished,  and  so  the  first  stanza  of  "The  Bells"  fell  to 
him.  It  had  transpired  in  the  reading  of  "Thana- 
topsis"  that  a  grave  and  solemn  tone  best  suited  that 
poem,  and  the  value  of  this  intelligence  was  made 
manifest  when,  in  a  voice  of  preternatural  solemnity, 
he  read : 

"What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells!" 

Instantly,  when  he  had  finished  his  "stanza,"  Liz- 
zie raised  her  hand  to  offer  a  criticism.  "Absalom, 
he  didn't  put  in  no  gestures." 

Miss    Margaret's    predecessor    had    painstakingly 

II 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

trained  his  reading-classes  in  the  Art  of  Gesticula- 
tion in  Public  Speaking,  and  Miss  Margaret  found 
the  results  of  his  labors  so  entertaining  that  she  had 
never  been  able  to  bring  herself  to  suppress  the  mon- 
strosity. 

"I  don't  like  them  gestures,"  sulkily  retorted  Ab- 


" Never  mind  the  gestures,"  Miss  Margaret  con- 
soled him — which  indifference  on  her  part  seemed 
high  treason  to  the  well-trained  class. 

"I  '11  hear  you  read,  now,  the  list  of  synonyms  you 
found  in  these  two  poems,"  she  added.  "Lizzie  may 
read  first." 

While  the  class  rapidly  leafed  their  readers  to  find 
their  lists  of  synonyms,  Miss  Margaret  looked  up  and 
spoke  to  Tillie,  reminding  her  gently  that  that  com- 
position would  not  be  written  by  half-past  three  if 
she  did  not  hasten  her  work. 

Tillie  blushed  with  embarrassment  at  being  caught 
in  an  idleness  that  had  to  be  reproved,  and  resolutely 
bent  all  her  powers  to  her  task. 

She  looked  about  the  room  for  a  subject.  The  walls 
were  adorned  with  the  print  portraits  of ' '  great  men, ' ' 
— former  State  superintendents  of  public  instruc- 
tion in  Pennsylvania, — and  with  highly  colored 
chromo  portraits  of  Washington,  Lincoln,  Grant,  and 
Garfield.  Then  there  were  a  number  of  framed  mot- 
tos:  "Education  rules  in  America,"  "Rely  on  your- 
self," "God  is  our  hope,"  "Dare  to  say  No,"  "Know- 
ledge is  power,"  "Education  is  the  chief  defense  of 
nations." 

12 


"Oh,  I  love  her!    I  love  her!" 

But  none  of  these  things  made  Tillie's  genius  to 
burn,  and  again  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  into  the  blue  sky;  and  after  a  few 
moments  she  suddenly  turned  to  her  desk  and  rapidly 
wrote  down  her  "subject"— "Evening." 

The  mountain  of  the  opening  sentence  being 
crossed,  the  rest  went  smoothly  enough,  for  Tillie 
wrote  it  from  her  heart. 

"EVENING. 

"I  love  to  take  my  little  sisters  and  brothers  and 
go  out,  still,  on  a  hill-top  when  the  sun  is  setting  so 
red  in  the  West,  and  the  birds  are  singing  around  us, 
and  the  cows  are  coming  home  to  be  milked,  and  the 
men  are  returning  from  their  day's  work. 

"I  would  love  to  play  in  the  evening  if  I  had  the 
dare,  when  the  children  are  gay  and  everything 
around  me  is  happy. 

"I  love  to  see  the  flowers  closing  their  buds  when 
the  shades  of  evening  are  come.  The  thought  has 
come  to  me,  still,  that  I  hope  the  closing  of  my  life 
may  come  as  quiet  and  peaceful  as  the  closing  of  the 
flowers  in  the  evening. 

"MATILDA  MARIA  GETZ." 

Miss  Margaret  was  just  calling  for  Absalom's 
synonyms  when  Tillie  carried  her  composition  to  the 
desk,  and  Absalom  was  replying  with  his  customary 
half-defiant  sullenness. 

"My  pop  he  sayed  I  ain't  got  need  to  waste  my; 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

time  gettin'  learnt  them  cinnamons.  Pop  he  says 
what  's  the  use  learnin'  two  words  where  [which] 
means  the  selfsame  thing— one  's  enough." 

Absalom's  father  was  a  school  director  and  Ab- 
salom had  grown  accustomed,  under  the  rule  of  Miss 
Margaret's  predecessors,  to  feel  the  force  of  the  fact 
in  their  care  not  to  offend  him. 

"But  your  father  is  not  the  teacher  here — I  am," 
she  cheerfully  told  him.  "So  you  may  stay  after 
school  and  do  what  I  require." 

Tillie  felt  a  pang  of  uneasiness  as  she  went  back 
to  her  seat.  Absalom's  father  was  very  influential 
and,  as  all  the  township  knew,  very  spiteful.  He 
could  send  Miss  Margaret  away,  and  he  would  do  it, 
if  she  offended  his  only  child,  Absalom.  Tillie 
thought  she  could  not  bear  it  at  all  if  Miss  Margaret 
were  sent  away.  Poor  Miss  Margaret  did  not  seem 
to  realize  her  own  danger.  Tillie  felt  tempted  to 
warn  her.  It  was  only  this  morning  that  the  teacher 
had  laughed  at  Absalom  when  he  said  that  the  Decla- 
ration of  Independence  was  "a  treaty  between  the 
United  States  and  England," — and  had  asked  him, 
"Which  country,  do  you  think,  hurrahed  the  loudest, 
Absalom,  when  that  treaty  was  signed?"  And  now 
this  afternoon  she  "as  much  as  said  Absalom's  father 
should  mind  to  his  own  business!"  It  was  growing 
serious.  There  had  never  been  before  a  teacher  at 
William  Penn  school-house  who  had  not  judiciously 
"showed  partiality"  to  Absalom. 

"And  he  used  to  be  dummer  yet  [stupider  even] 
than  what  he  is  now,"  thought  Tillie,  remembering 


"Oh,  I  love  her!    I  love  her!" 

vividly  a  school  entertainment  that  had  been  given 
during  her  own  first  year  at  school,  when  Absalom, 
nine  years  old,  had  spoken  his  first  piece.  His  pious 
Methodist  grandmother  had  endeavored  to  teach 
him  a  little  hymn  to  speak  on  the  great  occasion, 
while  his  frivolous  aunt  from  the  city  of  Lancaster 
had  tried  at  the  same  time  to  teach  him  "Bobby" 
Shafto."  New  Canaan  audiences  were  neither  dis- 
criminating nor  critical,  but  the  assembly  before 
which  little  Absalom  had  risen  to  "speak  his  piece 
off,"  had  found  themselves  confused  when  he  told 
them  that 

"On  Jordan's  bank  the  Baptist  stands, 
Silver  buckles  on  his  knee." 

Tillie  would  never  forget  her  own  infantine  agony 
of  suspense  as  she  sat,  a  tiny  girl  of  five,  in  the  audi- 
ence, listening  to  Absalom's  mistakes.  But  Eli  Dann- 
stetter,  the  teacher,  had  not  scolded  him. 

Then  there  was  the  time  that  Absalom  had  forced 
a  fight  at  recess  and  had  made  little  Adam  Ober- 
holzer's  nose  bleed — it  was  little  Adam  (whose  father 
was  not  at  that  time  a  school  director)  that  had  to 
stay  after  school ;  and  though  every  one  knew  it 
wasn't  fair,  it  had  been  accepted  without  criticism, 
because  even  the  young  rising  generation  of  New 
Canaan  understood  the  impossibility  and  folly  of 
quarreling  with  one's  means  of  earning  money. 

But  Miss  Margaret  appeared  to  be  perfectly  blind 
to  the  perils  of  her  position.  Tillie  was  deeply  trou- 
bled about  it. 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

At  half-past  three,  when,  at  a  nod  from  Miss  Mar- 
garet the  little  girl  left  her  desk  to  go  home,  a  won- 
derful thing  happened — Miss  Margaret  gave  her  a 
story-book. 

"You  are  so  fond  of  reading,  Tillie,  I  brought  you 
this.  You  may  take  it  home,  and  when  you  have  read 
it,  bring  it  back  to  me,  and  I  '11  give  you  something 
else  to  read." 

Delighted  as  Tillie  was  to  have  the  book  for  its  own 
sake,  it  was  yet  greater  happiness  to  handle  some- 
thing belonging  to  Miss  Margaret  and  to  realize  that 
Miss  Margaret  had  thought  so  much  about  her  as  to 
bring  it  to  her. 

"It  's  a  novel,  Tillie.  Have  you  ever  read  a  novel?" 

"No'm.     Only  li-bries." 

"What?" 

"Sunday-school  li-bries.  Us  we  're  Evangelicals, 
and  us  children  we  go  to  the  Sunday-school,  and  I 
still  bring  home  li-bry  books.  Pop  he  don't  uphold 
to  novel-readin'.  I  have  never  saw  a  novel  yet." 

"Well,  this  book  won't  injure  you,  Tillie.  You 
must  tell  me  all  about  it  when  you  have  read  it.  You 
will  find  it  so  interesting,  I  'm  afraid  you  won't  be 
able  to  study  your  lessons  while  you  are  reading  it." 

Outside  the  school-room,  Tillie  looked  at  the  title,— 
"Ivanhoe,"— and  turned  over  the  pages  in  an  ecstasy 
of  anticipation. 

"Oh!  I  love  her!  I  love  her!"  throbbed  her  little 
hungry  heart. 


16 


II 

"l    *M  GOING  TO  LEARN  YOU  ONCE!" 

TILLIE  was  obliged,  when  about  a  half-mile  from 
her  father's  farm,  to  hide  her  precious  book. 
This  she  did  by  pinning  her  petticoat  into  a  bag  and 
concealing  the  book  in  it.  It  was  in  this  way  that  she 
always  carried  home  her  "li-bries"  from  Sunday- 
school,  for  all  story-book  reading  was  prohibited  by 
her  father.  It  was  uncomfortable  walking  along  the 
highroad  with  the  book  knocking  against  her  legs  at 
every  step,  but  that  was  not  so  painful  as  her  father's 
punishment  would  be  did  he  discover  her  bringing 
home  a  "novel"!  She  was  not  permitted  to  bring 
home  even  a  school-book,  and  she  had  greatly  aston- 
ished Miss  Margaret,  one  day  at  the  beginning  of  the 
term,  by  asking,  "Please,  will  you  leave  me  let  my 
books  in  school?  Pop  says  I  darsen't  bring  'em 
home. ' ' 

"What  you  can't  learn  in  school,  you  can  do  with- 
out," Tillie's  father  had  said.  "When  you  're  home 
you  '11  work  fur  your  wittles. ' ' 

Tillie's  father  was  a  frugal,  honest,  hard-working, 
and  very  prosperous  Pennsylvania  Dutch  farmer, 
who  thought  he  religiously  performed  his  parental 
duty  in  bringing  up  his  many  children  in  the  fear  of 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

his  heavy  hand,  in  unceasing  labor,  and  in  almost 
total  abstinence  from  all  amusement  and  self-indul- 
gence. Far  from  thinking  himself  cruel,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  the  oftener  and  the  more  vigorously  he 
applied  "the  strap,"  the  more  conscientious  a  parent 
was  he. 

His  wife,  Tillie 's  stepmother,  was  as  submissive  to 
his  authority  as  were  her  five  children  and  Til- 
lie.  Apathetic,  anemic,  overworked,  she  yet  never 
dreamed  of  considering  herself  or  her  children 
abused,  accepting  her  lot  as  the  natural  one  of  woman, 
who  was  created  to  be  a  child-bearer,  and  to  keep 
man  well  fed  and  comfortable.  The  only  varia- 
tion from  the  deadly  monotony  of  her  mechanical 
and  unceasing  labor  was  found  in  her  habit  of  irri- 
tability with  her  stepchild.  She  considered  Tillie  "a 
dopple"  (a  stupid,  awkward  person)  ;  for  though 
usually  a  wonderful  little  household  worker,  Tillie, 
when  very  much  tired  out,  was  apt  to  drop  dishes; 
and  absent-mindedly  she  would  put  her  sunbonnet  in- 
stead of  the  bread  into  the  oven,  or  pour  molasses  in- 
stead of  batter  on  the  griddle.  Such  misdemeanors 
were  always  plaintively  reported  by  Mrs.  Getz  to  Til- 
lie's  father,  who,  without  fail,  conscientiously  applied 
what  he  considered  the  undoubted  cure. 

In  practising  the  strenuous  economy  prescribed  By 
her  husband,  Mrs.  Getz  had  to  manoeuver  very  skil- 
fully to  keep  her  children  decently  clothed,  and  Til- 
lie  in  this  matter  was  a  great  help  to  her;  for  the 
little  girl  possessed  a  precocious  skill  in  combining 
a  pile  of  patches  into  a  passably  decent  dress  or  coat 

18 


"I'm  going  to  learn  you  once!" 

for  one  of  her  little  brothers  or  sisters.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  invariably  Tillie  who  was  slighted  in  the  small 
expenditures  that  were  made  each  year  for  the  family 
clothing.  The  child  had  always  really  preferred  that 
the  others  should  have  "new  things"  rather  than 
herself — until  Miss  Margaret  came;  and  now,  before 
Miss  Margaret's  daintiness,  she  felt  ashamed  of  her 
own  shabby  appearance  and  longed  unspeakably  for 
fresh,  pretty  clothes.  Tillie  knew  perfectly  well  that 
her  father  had  plenty  of  money  to  buy  them  for  her  if 
he  would.  But  she  never  thought  of  asking  him  or 
her  stepmother  for  anything  more  than  what  they 
saw  fit  to  give  her. 

The  Getz  family  was  a  perfectly  familiar  type 
among  the  German  farming  class  of  southeastern 
Pennsylvania.  Jacob  Getz,  though  spoken  of  in  the 
neighborhood  as  being  "wonderful  near,"  which 
means  very  penurious,  and  considered  by  the  more 
gentle-minded  Amish  and  Mennonites  of  the  town- 
ship to  be  "overly  strict"  with  his  family  and  "too 
ready  with  the  strap  still,"  was  nevertheless  highly 
respected  as  one  who  worked  hard  and  was  prosper- 
ous, lived  economically,  honestly,  and  in  the  fear  of 
the  Lord,  and  was  "laying  by." 

The  Getz  farm  was  typical  of  the  better  sort  to  be 
found  in  that  county.  A  neat  walk,  bordered  by  clam 
shells,  led  from  a  wooden  gate  to  the  porch  of  a  rather 
large,  and  severely  plain  frame  house,  facing  the  road. 
Every  shutter  on  the  front  and  sides  of  the  building 
was  tightly  closed,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  life  about 
the  place.  A  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  Pennsylvania 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Dutch  custom  of  living  in  the  kitchen  and  shutting  off 
the  ''best  rooms,"— to  be  used  in  their  mustiness  and 
stiff  unhomelikeness  on  Sunday  only, — would  have 
thought  the  house  temporarily  empty.  It  was  forbid- 
dingly and  uncompromisingly  spick-and-span. 

A  grass-plot,  ornamented  with  a  circular  flower-bed, 
extended  a  short  distance  on  either  side  of  the  house. 
But  not  too  much  land  was  put  to  such  unproductive 
use;  and  the  small  lawn  was  closely  bordered  by  a 
corn-field  on  the  one  side  and  on  the  other  by  an  apple 
orchard.  Beyond  stretched  the  tobacco-  and  wheat- 
fields,  and  behind  the  house  were  the  vegetable  gar- 
den and  the  barn-yard. 

Arrived  at  home  by  half-past  three,  Tillie  hid  her 
"Ivanhoe"  under  the  pillow  of  her  bed  when  she  went 
up-stairs  to  change  her  faded  calico  school  dress  for 
the  yet  older  garment  she  wore  at  her  work. 

If  she  had  not  been  obliged  to  change  her  dress, 
she  would  have  been  puzzled  to  know  how  to  hide  her 
book,  for  she  could  not,  without  creating  suspicion, 
have  gone  up-stairs  in  the  daytime.  In  New  Canaan 
one  never  went  up-stairs  during  the  day,  except  at 
the  rare  times  when  obliged  to  change  one's  clothes. 
Every  one  washed  at  the  pump  and  used  the  one 
family  roller-towel  hanging  on  the  porch.  Miss  Mar- 
garet, ever  since  her  arrival  in  the  neighborhood,  had 
been  the  subject  of  wide-spread  remark  and  even  sus- 
picion, because  she  ''washed  up-stairs"  and  even  sat 
up-stairs ! — in  her  bedroom !  It  was  an  unheard-of  pro- 
ceeding in  New  Canaan. 

Tillie  helped  her  father  in  the  celery-beds  until 

20 


"I'm  going  to  learn  you  once!" 

dark;  then,  weary,  but  excited  at  the  prospect  of  her 
book,  she  went  in  from  the  fields  and  up-stairs  to  the 
little  low-roofed  bed-chamber  which  she  shared  with 
her  two  half-sisters.  They  were  already  in  bed  and 
asleep,  as  was  their  mother  in  the  room  across  the 
hall,  for  every  one  went  to  bed  at  sundown  in  Canaan 
Township,  and  got  up  at  sunrise. 

Tillie  was  in  bed  in  a  few  minutes,  rejoicing  in  the 
feeling  of  the  book  under  her  pillow.  Not  yet  dared 
she  venture  to  light  a  candle  and  read  it — not  until 
she  should  hear  her  father's  heavy  snoring  in  the 
room  across  the  hall. 

The  candles  which  she  used  for  this  surreptitious 
reading  of  Sunday-school  "li-bries"  and  any  other 
chance  literature  which  fell  in  her  way,  were  pro- 
cured with  money  paid  to  her  by  Miss  Margaret  for 
helping  her  to  clean  the  school-room  on  Friday  after- 
noons after  school.  Tillie  would  have  been  happy  to 
help  her  for  the  mere  joy  of  being  with  her,  but  Miss 
Margaret  insisted  upon  paying  her  ten  cents  for  each 
such  service. 

The  little  giri  was  obliged  to  resort  to  a  deep-laid 
plot  in  order  to  do  this  work  for  the  teacher.  It  had 
been  her  father's  custom — ever  since,  at  the  age  of  five, 
she  had  begun  to  go  to  school — to  "time"  her  in  com- 
ing home  at  noon  and  afternoon,  and  whenever  she 
was  not  there  on  the  minute,  to  mete  out  to  her  a  dose 
of  his  ever-present  strap. 

"I  ain't  havin'  no  playin'  on  the  way  home,  still! 
When  school  is  done,  you  come  right  away  home  then, 
to  help  me  or  your  mom,  or  I  '11  learn  you  once!" 

21 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

But  it  happened  that  Miss  Margaret,  in  her  reign 
at  "William  Penn"  school-house,  had  introduced  the 
innovation  of  closing  school  on  Friday  afternoons 
at  half-past  three  instead  of  four,  and  Tillie,  with 
bribes  of  candy  bought  with  part  of  her  weekly  wage 
of  ten  cents,  secured  secrecy  as  to  this  innovation 
from  her  little  sister  and  brother  who  went  to  school 
with  her — making  them  play  in  the  school-grounds 
until  she  was  ready  to  go  home  with  them. 

Before  Miss  Margaret  had  come  to  New  Canaan, 
Tillie  had  done  her  midnight  reading  by  the  light 
of  the  kerosene  lamp  which,  after  every  one  was 
asleep,  she  would  bring  up  from  the  kitchen  to  her 
bedside.  But  this  was  dangerous,  as  it  often  led  to 
awkward  inquiries  as  to  the  speedy  consumption  of 
the  oil.  Candles  were  safer.  Tillie  kept  them  and  a 
box  of  matches  hidden  under  the  mattress. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  at  last  the  child,  trem- 
bling with  mingled  delight  and  apprehension,  rose 
from  her  bed,  softly  closed  her  bedroom  door,  and 
with  extremely  judicious  carefulness  lighted  her  can- 
dle, propped  up  her  pillow,  and  settled  down  to  read 
as  long  as  she  should  be  able  to  hold  her  eyes  open. 
The  little  sister  at  her  side  and  the  one  in  the  bed 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room  slept  too  soundly  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  faint  flickering  light  of  that  one 
candle. 

To-night  her  stolen  pleasure  proved  more  than 
usually  engrossing.  At  first  the  book  was  interesting 
principally  because  of  the  fact,  so  vividly  present  with 
her,  that  Miss  Margaret's  eyes  and  mind  had  moved 

22 


"I'm  going  to  learn  you  once!" 

over  every  word  and  thought  which  she  was  now  ab- 
sorbing. But  soon  her  intense  interest  in  the  story 
excluded  every  other  idea — even  the  fear  of  discov- 
ery. Her  young  spirit  was  "out  of  the  body"  and 
following,  as  in  a  trance,  this  tale,  the  like  of  which 
she  had  never  before  read. 

The  clock  down-stairs  in  the  kitchen  struck  twelve 
— one — two,  but  Tillie  never  heard  it.  At  half-past 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  tallow  candle 
was  beginning  to  sputter  to  its  end,  she  still  was  read- 
ing, her  eyes  bright  as  stars,  her  usually  pale  face 
flushed  with  excitement,  her  sensitive  lips  parted  in 
breathless  interest — when,  suddenly,  a  stinging  blow 
of  "the  strap"  on  her  shoulders  brought  from  her 
a  cry  of  pain  and  fright. 

"What  you  mean,  doin'  somepin  like  this  yet!" 
sternly  demanded  her  father.  "What  fur  book  's  that 
there?" 

He  took  the  book  from  her  hands  and  Tillie  cow- 
ered beneath  the  covers,  the  wish  flashing  through 
her  mind  that  the  book  could  change  into  a  Bible  as 
he  looked  at  it! — which  miracle  would  surely  temper 
the  punishment  that  in  a  moment  she  knew  would  be 
meted  out  to  her. 

"  'Iwanhoe'— a  novel!  A  novel!"  he  said  in  gen- 
uine horror.  ' '  Tillie,  where  d '  you  get  this  here  ? ' ' 

Tillie  knew  that  if  she  told  lies  she  would  go  to 
hell,  but  she  preferred  to  burn  in  torment  forever 
rather  than  betray  Miss  Margaret;  for  her  father, 
like  Absalom's,  was  a  school  director,  and  if  he  knew 
Miss  Margaret  read  novels  and  lent  them  to  the  chii- 

23 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

dren,  he  would  surely  force  her  out  of  "William 
Perm." 

"I  lent  it  off  of  Elviny  Dinkleberger !"  she  sobbed. 

' '  You  know  I  tole  you  a  'ready  you  darse  n  't  bring 
books  home !  And  you  know  I  don't  uphold  to  novel- 
readin' !  I'll  have  to  learn  you  to  mind  better  'n  this ! 
"Where  d '  you  get  that  there  candle  ? ' ' 

"I — bought  it,  pop." 

"Bought?    Where  d'you  get  the  money?" 

Tillie  did  not  like  the  lies  she  had  to  tell,  but  she 
knew  she  had  already  perjured  her  soul  beyond  re- 
demption and  one  lie  more  cr  less  could  not  make  mat- 
ters worse. 

"I  found  it  in  the  road." 

"How  much  did  you  find?" 

"Fi'  cents." 

"You  hadn't  ought  to  spent  it  without  astin'  me 
dare  you.  Now  I  'm  go  in'  to  learn  you  once  !  Set  up. " 

Tillie  obeyed,  and  the  strap  fell  across  her  shoul- 
ders. Her  outcries  awakened  the  household  and 
started  the  youngest  little  sister,  in  her  fright  and 
sympathy  with  Tillie,  to  a  high-pitched  wailing.  The 
rest  of  them  took  the  incident  phlegmatically,  the  only 
novelty  about  it  being  the  strange  hour  of  its  hap- 
pening. 

But  the  hardest  part  of  her  punishment  was  to 
follow. 

"Now  this  here  book  goes  in  the  fire!"  her  father 
announced  when  at  last  his  hand  was  stayed.  "And 
any  more  that  comes  home  goes  after  it  in  the  stove. 
I  '11  see  if  you  '11  mind  your  pop  or  not ! ' ' 

24 


"I'm  going  to  learn  you  once!" 

Left  alone  in  her  bed,  her  body  quivering,  her  little 
soul  hot  with  shame  and  hatred,  the  child  stifled  her 
sobs  in  her  pillow,  her  whole  heart  one  bleeding 
wound. 

How  could  she  ever  tell  Miss  Margaret?  Surely 
she  would  never  like  her  any  more! — never  again  lay 
her  hand  on  her  hair,  or  praise  her  compositions,  or 
call  her  "honey,"  or,  even,  perhaps,  allow  her  to  help 
her  on  Fridays ! — and  what,  then,  would  be  the  use  of 
living?  If  only  she  could  die  and  be  dead  like  a  cat 
or  a  bird  and  not  go  to  hell,  she  would  take  the 
carving-knife  and  kill  herself!  But  there  was  hell 
to  b'e  taken  into  consideration.  And  yet,  could  hell 
hold  anything  worse  than  the  loss  of  Miss  Margaret's 
kindness?  How  could  she  tell  her  of  that  burned-up 
book  and  endure  to  see  her  look  at  her  with  cold  dis- 
approval ?  Oh,  to  make  such  return  for  her  kindness, 
when  she  so  longed  with  all  her  soul  to  show  her  how 
much  she  loved  her ! 

For  the  first  time  in  all  her  school-days,  Tillie  went 
next  morning  with  reluctance  to  school. 


Ill 

"WHAT  's  HURTIN'  YOU,  TILLIE  T" 

SHE  meant  to  make  her  confession  as  soon  as  she 
reached  the  school-house— and  have  it  over— but 
Miss  Margaret  was  busy  writing  on  the  blackboard, 
and  Tillie  felt  an  immense  relief  at  the  necessary  post- 
ponement of  her  ordeal  to  recess  time. 

The  hours  of  that  morning  were  very  long  to  her 
heavy  heart,  and  the  minutes  dragged  to  the  time  of 
her  doom — for  nothing  but  blackness  lay  beyond  the 
point  of  the  acknowledgment  which  must  turn  her 
teacher's  fondness  to  dislike. 

She  saw  Miss  Margaret's  eyes  upon  her  several 
times  during  the  morning,  with  that  look  of  anxious 
concern  which  had  so  often  fed  her  starved  affections. 
Yes,  Miss  Margaret  evidently  could  see  that  she  was 
in  trouble  and  she  was  feeling  sorry  for  her.  But, 
alas,  when  she  should  learn  the  cause  of  her  misery, 
how  surely  would  that  look  turn  to  coldness  and  dis- 
pleasure ! 

Tillie  felt  that  she  was  ill  preparing  the  way  for 
her  dread  confession  in  the  very  bad  recitations  she 
made  all  morning.  She  failed  in  geography— every 
question  that  came  to  her;  she  failed  to  understand 
Miss  Margaret's  explanation  of  compound  interest, 

26 


"What  's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie  ?  " 

though  the  explanation  was  gone  over  a  third5 
time  for  her  especial  benefit;  she  missed  five  words 
in  spelling  and  two  questions  in  United  States  his- 
tory! 

' '  Tillie,  Tillie ! ' '  Miss  Margaret  solemnly  shook  her 
head,  as  she  closed  her  book  at  the  end  of  the  last 
recitation  before  recess.  "Too  much  'Ivanhoe,'  I  'm 
afraid!  Well,  it  's  my  fault,  isn't  it?" 

The  little  girl's  blue  eyes  gazed  up  at  her  with  a 
look  of  such  anguish,  that  impulsively  Miss  Margaret 
drew  her  to  her  side,  as  the  rest  of  the  class  moved 
away  to  their  seats. 

"What  's  the  matter,  dear?"  she  asked.  "Aren't 
you  well ?  You  look  pale  and  ill !  What  is  it,  Tillie?" 

Tillie 's  overwrought  heart  could  bear  no  more. 
Her  head  fell  on  Miss  Margaret's  shoulder  as  she 
broke  into  wildest  crying.  Her  body  quivered  with 
her  gasping  sobs  and  her  little  hands  clutched  con- 
vulsively at  Miss  Margaret's  gown. 

"You  poor  little  thing!"  whispered  Miss  Margaret, 
her  arms  about  the  child ;  "what  's  the  matter  with 
you,  honey?  There,  there,  don't  cry  so — tell  me 
what  's  the  matter." 

It  was  such  bliss  to  tie  petted  like  this— to  feel  Miss 
Margaret's  arms  about  her  and  hear  that  loved  voice 
so  close  to  her! — for  the  last  time!  Never  again 
after  this  moment  would  she  be  liked  and  caressed ! 
Her  heart  was  breaking  and  she  could  not  answer 
for  her  sobbing. 

"Tillie,  dear,  sit  down  here  in  my  chair  until  I  send 
the  other  children  out  to  recess — and  then  you  and  I 

27 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

•can  have  a  talk  by  ourselves,"  Miss  Margaret  said, 
leading  the  child  a  step  to  her  arm-chair  on  the  plat- 
form. She  stood  beside  the  chair,  holding  Tillie 's 
throbbing  head  to  her  side,  while  she  tapped  the  bell 
which  dismissed  the  children. 

"Now,"  she  said,  when  the  door  had  closed  on  the 
last  of  them  and  she  had  seated  herself  and  drawn 
Tillie  to  her  again,  "tell  me  what  you  are  crying  for, 
little  girlie." 

"Miss  Margaret!"  Tillie 's  words  came  in  hys- 
terical, choking  gasps;  "you  won't  never  like  me  no 
more  when  I  tell  you  what  's  happened,  Miss  Mar- 
garet!" 

"Why,  dear  me,  Tillie,  what  on  earth  is  it?" 

' '  I  did  n  't  mean  to  do  it,  Miss  Margaret !  And 
I'll  redd  up  for  you,  Fridays,  still,  till  it's  paid 
for  a 'ready,  Miss  Margaret,  if  you  '11  leave  me, 
won't  you,  please?  Oh,  won't  you  never  like  me  no 
more?" 

"My  dear  little  goosie,  what  is  the  matter  with 
.you?  Come,"  she  said,  taking  the  little  girl's  hand 
•reassuringly  in  both  her  own,  "tell  me,  child." 

A  certain  note  of  firmness  in  her  usually  drawling 
Southern  voice  checked  a  little  the  child's  hysterical 
emotion.  She  gulped  the  choking  lump  in  her  throat 
and  answered. 

"I  was  readin'  'Ivanhoe'  in  bed  last  night,  and  pop 
woke  up,  and  seen  my  candle-light,  and  he  conceited 
he  'd  look  once  and  see  what  it  was,  and  then  he  seen 
me,  and  he  don't  uphold  to  novel-readin ',  and  he — 
he-" 

28 


"•What's  the  matter,  dear?'  she  asked." 


"What  's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie  ?  " 

' '  Well  ? ' '  Miss  Margaret  gently  urged  her  faltering 
speech. 

"He  whipped  me  and— and  burnt  up  your  Book!'* 

"Whipped  you  again!"  Miss  Margaret's  soft  voice 
indignantly  exclaimed.  ' '  The  br— ' '  she  cheeked  her- 
self and  virtuously  closed  her  lips.  "I  'm  so  sorry, 
Tillie,  that  I  got  you  into  such  a  scrape!" 

Tillie  thought  Miss  Margaret  could  not  have  heard 
her  clearly. 

"He — burnt  up  your  book  yet,  Miss  Margaret!" 
she  found  voice  to  whisper  again. 

"Indeed !    I  ought  to  make  him  pay  for  it!" 

"He  did  n't  know  it  was  yourn,  Miss  Margaret — 
he  don't  uphold  to  novel-readin ',  and  if  he  'd  know  it 
was  yourn  he  'd  have  you  put  out  of  William  Penn, 
so  I  tole  him  I  lent  it  off  of  Elviny  Dinkleberger — 
and  I  '11  help  you  Fridays  till  it  's  paid  for  a 'ready, 
if  you  '11  leave  me,  Miss  Margaret!" 

She  lifted  pleading  eyes  to  the  teacher's  face,  to 
see  therein  a  look  of  anger  such  as  she  had  never  be- 
fore beheld  in  that  gentle  countenance — for  Miss  Mar- 
garet had  caught  sight  of  the  marks  of  the  strap  on 
Tillie 's  bare  neck,  and  she  was  flushed  with  indigna- 
tion at  the  outrage.  But  Tillie,  interpreting  the  anger 
to  be  against  herself,  turned  as  white  as  death,  and 
a  look  of  such  hopeless  woe  came  into  her  face  that 
Miss  Margaret  suddenly  realized  the  dread  apprehen- 
sion torturing  the  child. 

' '  Come  here  to  me,  you  poor  little  thing ! ' '  she  ten- 
derly exclaimed,  drawing  the  little  girl  into  her  lap 
and  folding  her  to  her  heart.  "I  don't  care  anything 

31 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

about  the  book,  honey!  Did  you  think  I  would? 
There,  there — don't  cry  so,  Tillie,  don't  cry.  /  love 
you,  don't  you  know  I  do!" — and  Miss  Margaret 
kissed  the  child's  quivering  lips,  and  with  her  own 
fragrant  handkerchief  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
cheeks,  and  with  her  soft,  cool  fingers  smoothed  back 
the  hair  from  her  hot  forehead. 

And  this  child,  who  had  never  known  the  touch  of 
a  mother's  hand  and  lips,  was  transported  in  that 
moment  from  the  suffering  of  the  past  night  and 
morning,  to  a  happiness  that  made  this  hour  stand 
out  to  her,  in  all  the  years  that  followed,  as  the  one 
supreme  experience  of  her  childhood. 

Ineffable  tenderness  of  the  mother  heart  of  woman ! 

That  afternoon,  when  Tillie  got  home  from  school, 
— ten  minutes  late  according  to  the  time  allowed  her 
by  her  father, — she  was  quite  unable  to  go  out  to  help 
him  in  the  field.  Every  step  of  the  road  home  had 
been  a  dragging  burden  to  her  aching  limbs,  and  the 
moment  she  reached  the  farm-house,  she  tumbled  in 
a  little  heap  upon  the  kitchen  settee  and  lay  there, 
exhausted  and  white,  her  eyes  shining  with  fever,  her 
mouth  parched  with  thirst,  her  head  throbbing  with 
pain — feeling  utterly  indifferent  to  the  consequences 
of  her  tardiness  and  her  failure  to  meet  her  father  in 
the  field. 

"Ain't  you  feelin'  good?"  her  stepmother  phleg- 
matically  inquired  from  across  the  room,  where  she 
sat  with  a  dish-pan  in  her  lap,  paring  potatoes  for 
supper. 

"No,  ma'am,"  weakly  answered  Tillie. 

32 


« What  's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie  ?  " 

"Pop  '11  be  looking  fur  you  out  in  the  field." 

Tillie  wearily  closed  her  eyes  and  did  not  answer. 

Mrs.  Getz  looked  up  from  her  pan  and  let  her 
glance  rest  for  an  instant  upon  the  child's  white, 
pained  face.  "Are  you  feelin'  too  mean  to  go  help 
pop?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I — can't!"  gasped  Tillie,  with  a  lit- 
tle sob. 

"You  ain't  lookin'  good,"  the  woman  reluctantly 
conceded.  "Well,  I  '11  leave  you  lay  a  while.  Mebbe 
pop  used  the  strap  too  hard  last  night.  He  sayed 
this  dinner  that  he  was  some  uneasy  that  he  used  the 
strap  so  hard — but  he  was  that  wonderful  spited  to 
think  you  'd  set  up  readin'  a  novel-book  in  the  night- 
time yet !  You  might  of  knew  you  'd  ketch  an  awful 
lickin'  fur  doin'  such  a  dumm  thing  like  what  that 
was.  Sammy ! ' '  she  called  to  her  little  eight-year-old 
son,  who  was  playing  on  the  kitchen  porch,  "you  go 
out  and  tell  pop  Tillie  she  's  got  sick  fur  me,  and  I  'm 
leavin'  her  lay  a  while.  Now  hurry  on,  or  he  '11  come 
in  here  to  see,  once,  ain't  she  home  yet,  or  what.  Go 
on  now!" 

Sammy  departed  on  his  errand,  and  Mrs.  Getz  dili- 
gently resumed  her  potato-paring. 

"I  don't  know  what  pop  '11  say  to  you  not  comin' 
out  to  help,"  she  presently  remarked. 

Tillie 's  head  moved  restlessly,  but  she  did  not 
speak.  She  was  past  caring  what  her  father  might 
say  or  do. 

Mrs.  Getz  thoughtfully  considered  a  doubtful  po- 
tato, and,  concluding  at  length  to  discard  it,  "I 

33 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

guess,"  she  said,  throwing  it  back  into  the  pan,  "I  '11 
let  that  one;  it  's  some  poor.  Do  you  feel  fur  eatin' 
any  supper?"  she  asked.  "I  'm  havin'  fried  smashed 
potatoes  and  wieners  [Frankfort  sausages].  Some 
days  I  just  don't  know  what  to  cook  all." 

Tillie 's  lips  moved,  but  gave  no  sound. 

"I  guess  you  're  right  down  sick  fur  all;  ain't?  I 
wonder  if  pop  '11  have  Doc  in.  He  won't  want  to 
spend  any  fur  that.  But  you  do  look  wonderful  bad. 
It  's  awful  onhandy  comin'  just  to-day.  I  did  feel 
fur  sayin'  to  pop  I  'd  go  to  the  rewiwal  to-night,  of 
he  did  n  't  mind.  It 's  a  while  back  a  'ready  since  I 
was  to  a  meetin'— not  even  on  a  funeral.  And  they 
say  they  do  now  make  awful  funny  up  at  Bethel  re- 
wiwal this  week.  I  was  thinkin'  I  'd  go  once.  But  if 
you  can't  redd  up  after  supper  and  help  milk  and 
put  the  childera  to  bed,  I  can't  go  fur  all." 

No  response  from  Tillie. 

Mrs.  Getz  sighed  her  disappointment  as  she  went 
on  with  her  work.  Presently  she  spoke  again.  ' '  This 
after,  a  lady  agent  come  along.  She  had  such  a  com- 
plexion lotion.  She  talked  near  a  half-hour.  She 
was,  now,  a  beautiful  conversationist!  I  just  set  and 
listened.  Then  she  was  some  spited  that  I  would  n 't 
buy  a  box  of  complexion  lotion  off  of  her.  But  she 
certainly  was,  now,  a  beautiful  conversationist!" 

The  advent  of  an  agent  in  the  neighborhood  was 
always  a  noteworthy  event,  and  Tillie 's  utterly  indif- 
ferent reception  of  the  news  that  to-day  one  had 
"been  along"  made  Mrs.  Getz  look  at  her  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Are  you  too  sick  to  take  interest?"  she  asked. 

34 


"What 's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie?" 

The  child  made  no  answer.  The  woman  rose  to  put 
her  potatoes  on  the  stove. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when,  as  Tillie  still  lay  motion- 
less on  the  settee,  and  Mrs.  Getz  was  dishing  up  the 
supper  and  putting  it  on  the  table,  which  stood  near 
the  wall  at  one  end  of  the  kitchen,  Mr.  Getz  came  in, 
tired,  dirty,  and  hungry,  from  the  celery-beds. 

The  child  opened  her  eyes  at  the  familiar  and  often 
dreaded  step,  and  looked  up  at  him  as  he  came  and 
stood  over  her. 

''What's  the  matter?  What's  hurtin'  you,  Til- 
lie?"  he  asked,  an  unwonted  kindness  in  his  voice 
as  he  saw  how  ill  the  little  girl  looked. 

"I  don'— know,"  Tillie  whispered,  her  heavy  eye* 
lids  falling  again. 

"You  don'  know!  You  can't  be  so  worse  if  you 
don'  know  what  's  hurtin'  you!  Have  you  fever,  or 
the  headache,  or  whatever?" 

He  laid  his  rough  hand  on  her  forehead  and  passed 
it  over  her  cheek. 

' '  She  's  some  feverish, ' '  he  said,  turning  to  his  wife, 
who  was  busy  at  the  stove.  ' '  Full  much  so ! " 

"She  had  the  cold  a  little,  and  I  guess  she  's  took 
more  to  it,"  Mrs.  Getz  returned,  bearing  the  fried 
potatoes  across  the  kitchen  to  the  table. 

"I  heard  the  Doc  talkin'  there  's  smallpox  handy 
to  us,  only  a  mile  away  at  New  Canaan,"  said  Getz, 
a  note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice  that  made  the  sick  child 
wearily  marvel.  Why  was  he  anxious  about  her?  she 
wondered.  It  wasn't  because  he  liked  her,  as  Miss 
Margaret  did.  He  was  afraid  of  catching  smallpox 
himself,  perhaps.  Or  he  was  afraid  she  would  be  un- 

31 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

able  to  help  him  to-morrow,  and  maybe  for  many 
days,  out  in  the  celery-beds.  That  was  why  he  spoke 
anxiously — not  because  he  liked  her  and  was  sorry. 

No  bitterness  was  mingled  with  Tillie 's  quite  mat- 
ter-of-fact acceptance  of  these  conclusions. 

"It  would  be  a  good  much  trouble  to  us  if  she  was 
took  down  with  the  smallpox, ' '  Mrs.  Getz  's  tired  voice 
replied. 

"I  guess  not  as  much  as  it  would  be  to  her,"  the 
father  said,  a  rough  tenderness  in  his  voice,  and  some- 
thing else  which  Tillie  vaguely  felt  to  be  a  note  of 
pain. 

''Are  you  havin'  the  Doc  in  fur  her,  then?"  his 
wife  asked. 

"I  guess  I  better,  mebbe,"  the  man  hesitated.  His 
thrifty  mind  shrank  at  the  thought  of  the  expense. 

He  turned  again  to  Tillie  and  bent  over  her. 

"Can't  you  tell  pop  what  's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie?" 

"No-sir." 

Mr.  Getz  looked  doubtfully  and  rather  helplessly 
at  his  wife.  "It  's  a  bad  sign,  ain't,  when  they 
can't  tell  what's  hurtin'  'em?" 

"I  don't  know  what  fur  sign  that  is  when  they 
don't  feel  nothin',"  she  stoically  answered,  as  she 
dished  up  her  Frankfort  sausages. 

"If  a  person  would  just  know  oncet !"  he  exclaimed 
anxiously.  "Anyhow,  she  's  pretty  much  sick— she 
looks  it  so !  I  guess  I  better  mebbe  not  take  no  risks. 
I  '11  send  fur  Doc  over.  Sammy  can  go,  then." 

"All  right.  Supper  's  ready  now.  You  can  come 
eat." 

36 


"What  's  hurtin'  you,  Tillie  ?  " 

She  went  to  the  door  to  call  the  children  in  from 
the  porch  and  the  lawn ;  and  Mr.  Getz  again  bent  over 
the  child. 

"Can  you  eat  along,  Tillie?" 

Tillie  weakly  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  you  feel  fur  your  wittles?" 

"No-sir." 

"Well,  well.  I  '11  send  fur  the  Doc,  then,  and  he 
can  mebbe  give  you  some  pills,  or  what,  to  make  you 
feel  some  better;  ain't?"  he  said,  again  passing  his 
rough  hand  over  her  forehead  and  cheek,  with  a  touch 
as  nearly  like  a  caress  as  anything  Tillie  had  ever 
known  from  him.  The  tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes 
and  slowly  rolled  over  her  white  face,  as  she  felt  this 
unwonted  expression  of  affection. 

Her  father  turned  away  quickly  and  went  to  the 
table,  about  which  the  children  were  gathering. 

"Where's  Sammy?"  he  asked  his  wife.  "I'm 
sendin'  him  fur  the  Doc  after  supper." 

"Where?  I  guess  over,"  she  motioned  with  her 
head  as  she  lifted  the  youngest,  a  one-year-old  boy, 
into  his  high  chair.  "Over"  was  the  family  designa- 
tion for  the  pump,  at  which  every  child  of  a  suitable 
age  was  required  to  wash  his  face  and  hands  before 
coming  to  the  table. 

While  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  after 
supper,  Getz  ineffectually  tried  to  force  Tillie  to  eat 
something.  In  his  genuine  anxiety  about  her  and  his 
eagerness  for  "the  Doc's"  arrival,  he  quite  forgot 
about  the  fee  which  would  have  to  be  paid  for  the 
visit. 

37 


IV 

"THE  DOC"  COMBINES  BUSINESS  AND  PLEASURE 

MISS  MARGARET  boarded  at  the  "hotel"  of 
New  Canaan.  As  the  only  other  regular 
boarder  was  the  middle-aged,  rugged,  unkempt  little 
man  known  as  "the  Doc,"  and  as  the  transient  guests 
were  very  few  and  far  between,  Miss  Margaret  shared 
the  life  of  the  hotel-keeper's  family  on  an  intimate 
and  familiar  footing. 

The  invincible  custom  of  New  Canaan  of  using  a 
ibedroom  only  at  night  made  her  unheard-of  inclina- 
tion to  sit  in  her  room  during  the  day  or  before  bed- 
time the  subject  of  so  much  comment  and  wonder 
that,  feeling  it  best  to  yield  to  the  prejudice,  she  usu- 
ally read,  sewed,  or  wrote  letters  in  the  kitchen,  or, 
when  a  fire  was  lighted,  in  the  combination  dining- 
and  sitting-room. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  of  Tillie's  confession 
about  "Ivanhoe,"  and  Miss  Margaret,  after  the  early 
supper-hour  of  the  country  hotel,  had  gone  to  the 
sitting-room,  removed  the  chenille  cover  from  the 
centre-table,  uncorked  the  bottle  of  fluid  sold  at  the 
village  store  as  ink,  but  looking  more  like  raspberry- 
ade,  and  settled  herself  to  write,  to  one  deeply  inter- 

38 


Business  and  pleasure 

ested  in  everything  which  interested  her,  an  account 
of  her  day  and  its  episode  with  the  little  daughter 
of  Jacob  Getz. 

This  room  in  which  she  sat,  like  all  other  rooms 
of  the  district,  was  too  primly  neat  to  be  cozy  or 
comfortable.  It  contained  a  bright  new  rag  carpet, 
a  luridly  painted  wooden  settee,  a  sewing-machine, 
and  several  uninviting  wooden  chairs.  Margaret 
often  yearned  to  pull  the  pieces  of  furniture  out  from 
their  stiff,  sentinel-like  stations  against  the  wall  and 
give  to  the  room  that  divine  touch  of  homeyness 
which  it  lacked.  But  she  did  not  dare  venture  upon 
such  a  liberty. 

Very  quickly  absorbed  in  her  letter-writing,  she 
did  not  notice  the  heavy  footsteps  which  presently 
sounded  across  the  floor  and  paused  at  her  chair. 

"Now  that  there  writin' — "  said  a  gruff  voice  at 
her  shoulder ;  and,  startled,  she  quickly  turned  in  her 
chair,  to  find  the  other  boarder,  "the  Doc,"  leaning  on 
the  back  of  it,  his  shaggy  head  almost  on  a  level  with 
her  fair  one. 

"That  there  writin',"  pursued  the  doctor,  con- 
tinuing to  hold  his  fat  head  in  unabashed  proximity 
to  her  own  and  to  her  letter,  "is  wonderful  easy  to 
read.  Wonderful  easy." 

Miss  Margaret  promptly  covered  her  letter  with  a 
blotter,  corked  the  raspberry-ade,  and  rose. 

"Done  a 'ready?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"For  the  present,  yes." 

' '  See  here  oncet,  Teacher ! ' ' 

He  suddenly  fixed  her  with  his  small,  keen  eyes  as 

39 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

he  drew  from  the  pocket  of  his  shabby,  dusty  coat  a 
long,  legal-looking  paper. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said  impressively,  "an  impor- 
tant dokiment,  Teacher,  concerning  of  which  I  desire 
to  consult  you  perf  essionally. " 

"Yes?" 

"You  just  stay  settin';  I  '11  fetch  a  chair  and  set 
aside  of  you  and  show  it  to  you  oncet." 

He  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  table  and  Margaret  re- 
luctantly sat  down,  feeling  annoyed  and  disappointed 
at  this  interruption  of  her  letter,  yet  unwilling,  in  the 
goodness  of  her  heart,  to  snub  the  little  man. 

The  doctor  bent  near  to  her  and  spoke  confiden- 
tially. 

"You  see,  them  swanged  fools  in  the  legislature 
has  went  to  work  and  passed  a  act— ag'in'  my  protest, 
mind  you — compellin'  doctors  to  fill  out  blanks  an- 
swerin'  to  a  lot  of  darn- fool  questions  'bout  one  thing 
and  'nother,  like  this  here." 

He  had  spread  open  on  the  table  the  paper  he  had 
drawn  from  his  pocket.  It  was  soiled  from  contact 
with  his  coat  and  his  hands,  and  Margaret,  instead 
of  touching  the  sheet,  pressed  it  down  with  the  handle 
of  her  pen. 

The  doctor  noticed  the  act  and  laughed.  "You  're 
wonderful  easy  kreistled  [disgusted]  ;  ain't?  I 
took  notice  a 'ready  how  when  things  is  some  dirty 
they  kreistle  you,  still.  But  indeed,  Teacher,"  he 
gravely  added,  "it  ain't  healthy  to  wash  so  much  and 
keep  so  clean  as  what  you  do.  It's  weakenin'.  That  's 
why  city  folks  ain't  so  hearty— they  get  right  into 

40 


Business  and  pleasure 

them  big,  long  tubs  they  have  built  in  their  houses 
up-stairs!  I  seen  one  oncet  in  at  Doc  Hess's  in  Lan- 
caster. I  says  to  him  when  I  seen  it,  'You  wouldn't 
get  me  into  that — it  's  too  much  like  a  coffin!'  I  says. 
'It  would  make  a  body  creepy  to  get  in  there.'  And 
he  says,  'I  'd  feel  creepy  if  I  didn't  get  in.'  'Yes,'  I 
says,  'that  's  why  you  're  so  thin.  You  wash  yourself 
away,'  I  says." 

"What  's  it  all  about?"  Miss  Margaret  abruptly 
asked,  examining  the  paper. 

' '  These  here  's  the  questions, ' '  answered  the  doctor, 
tracing  them  with  his  thick,  dirty  forefinger;  "and 
these  here  's  the  blank  spaces  fur  to  write  the  answers 
into.  Now  you  can  write  better  'n  me,  Teacher ;  and  if 
you  '11  just  take  and  write  in  the  answers  fur  me, 
why,  I  '11  do  a  favor  fur  you  some  time  if  ever  you 
ast  it  off  of  me.  And  if  ever  you  need  a  doctor,  just 
you  call  on  me,  and  I  'm  swanged  if  I  charge  you  a 
cent!" 

Among  the  simple  population  of  New  Canaan  the 
Doc  was  considered  the  most  blasphemous  man  in 
America,  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  general  im- 
pression in  the  village  that  his  profanity  was,  in  some 
way,  an  eccentricity  of  genius. 

"Thank  you,"  Miss  Margaret  responded  to  his 
offer  of  free  medical  services.  "I  '11  fill  out  the  paper 
for  you  with  pleasure." 

She  read  aloud  the  first  question  of  the  list. 
"  '"Where  did  you  attend  lectures?'  " 

Her  pen  suspended  over  the  paper,  she  looked  at 
him  inquiringly.  "Well?"  she  asked. 

41 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Lekshures  be  blowed!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  ain't 
never  'tended  no  lekshures ! ' ' 

' '  Oh ! ' '  said  Miss  Margaret,  nodding  conclusively. 
"Well,  then,  let  us  pass  on  to  the  next  question.  'To 
what  School  of  Medicine  do  you  belong?'  ' 

"School?"  repeated  the  doctor;  "I  went  to  school 
right  here  in  this  here  town — it  's  better  'n  thirty 
years  ago,  a 'ready." 

"No,"  Miss  Margaret  explained,  "that's  not  the 
question.  'To  what  School  of  Medicine  do  you  be- 
long?' Medicine,  you  know,"  she  repeated,  as  though 
talking  to  a  deaf  person. 

"Oh,"  said  the  doctor,  "medicine,  is  it?  I  never 
have  went  to  none,"  he  announced  defiantly.  "I 
studied  medicine  in  old  Doctor  Johnson's  office  and 
learnt  it  by  practisin'  it.  That  there  's  the  only  way 
to  learn  any  business.  Do  you  suppose  you  could 
learn  a  boy  carpenterin'  by  settin'  him  down  to  read 
books  on  sawin'  boards  and  a-lekshurin'  him  on 
drivin*  nails?  No  more  can  you  make  a  doctor  in  no 
such  swanged-f  ool  way  like  that  there  ! ' ' 

"But,"  said  Margaret,  "the  question  means  do  you 
practise  allopathy,  homeopathy,  hydropathy,  osteop- 
athy,— or,  for  instance,  eclecticism?  Are  you,  for  ex- 
ample, a  homeopathist  ? " 

"Gosh!"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  her  admir- 
ingly, "I  'm  blamed  if  you  don't  know  more  big 
words  than  I  ever  seen  in  a  spellin'-book  or  heard  at  a 
spellin '-bee !  Home-o-pathy ?  No,  sir!  When  I  give 
a  dose  to  a  patient,  still,  he  'most  always  generally 
finds  it  out,  and  pretty  gosh -hang  quick  too !  When 

42 


Business  and  pleasure 

he  gits  a  dose  of  my  herb  bitters  he  knows  it  good 
enough.  Be  sure,  I  don't  give  babies,  and  so  forth, 
doses  like  them.  All  such  I  treat,  still,  according  to 
home-o-pathy,  and  not  like  that  swanged  fool,  Doc 
Hess,  which  only  last  week  he  give  a  baby  a  dose  fitten 
only  fur  a  field-hand— and  he  went  to  college!— Oh, 
yes! — and  heerd  lekshures  too!  Natural  conse- 
quence, the  baby  up 't  and  died  fur  'em.  But  growed 
folks  they  need  allopathy." 

"Then,"  said  Margaret,  "you  might  be  called  an 
eclectic  ? ' ' 

"A  eclectic?"  the  doctor  inquiringly  repeated, 
rubbing  his  nose.  "To  be  sure,  I  know  in  a  general 
way  what  a  eclectic  is,  and  so  forth.  But  what  would 
you  mean,  anyhow,  by  a  eclectic  doctor,  so  to  speak, 
heh?" 

"An  eclectic,"  Margaret  explained,  "is  one  who 
claims  to  adopt  whatever  is  good  and  reject  whatever 
is  bad  in  every  system  or  school  of  medicine." 

4 '  If  that  ain  't  a  description  of  me  yet ! ' '  exclaimed 
the  doctor,  delighted.  "Write  'em  down,  Teacher! 
I'm  a — now  what  d'you  call  'em?" 

"You  certainly  are  a  what-do-you-call-'em!" 
thought  Margaret — but  she  gravely  repeated,  "An 
eclectic,"  and  wrote  the  name  in  the  blank  space. 

"And  here  I've  been  practisin'  that  there  style  of 
medicine  fur  fifteen  years  without  oncet  suspicioning 
it!  That  is,"  he  quickly  corrected  himself,  in  some 
confusion,  "I  haven't,  so  to  speak,  called  it  pretty 
often  a  eclectic,  you  see,  gosh  hang  it!  and— you  un- 
derstand, don't  you,  Teacher?" 

.43 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Margaret  understood  very  well  indeed,  but  she  put 
the  question  by. 

The  rest  of  the  blank  was  filled  with  less  difficulty, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  paper  was  folded  and  re- 
turned to  the  doctor's  pocket. 

"I  'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Teacher,"  he  said 
heartily.  "And  mind,  now,"  he  added,  leaning  far 
back  in  his  chair,  crossing  his  legs,  thrusting  his 
thumbs  into  his  vest  pockets,  and  letting  his  eyes  rest 
upon  her,  "if  ever  you  want  a  doctor,  I  ain't  chargin' 
you  nothin';  and  leave  me  tell  you  somethin',"  he 
said,  emphasizing  each  word  by  a  shake  of  his  fore- 
finger, "Jake  Getz  and  Nathaniel  Puntz  they  're  the 
two  school  directors  that  'most  always  makes  trouble 
fur  the  teacher.  And  I  pass  you  my  word  that  if  they 
get  down  on  you  any,  and  want  to  chase  you  off  your 
job,  I  'm  standin'  by  you — I  pass  you  my  word!" 

"Thank  you.  But  what  would  they  get  down  on 
me  for?" 

"Well,  if  Jake  Getz  saw  you  standin'  up  for  his 
childern  against  his  lickin'  'em  or  makin'  'em  work 
hard ;  or  if  you  wanted  to  make  'em  take  time  to  learn 
their  books  at  home  when  he  wants  'em  to  work — or 
some  such — he  'd  get  awful  down  on  you.  And  Na- 
thaniel Puntz  he  's  just  the  contrary— he  wants  hisn 
spoiled— he  's  got  but  the  one." 

Miss  Margaret  recalled  with  a  little  thrill  the  loy- 
alty with  which  Tillie  had  tried  to  save  her  from  her 
father's  anger  by  telling  him  that  Elviny  Dinkleber- 
ger  had  lent  her  "Ivanhoe."  "I  suppose  I  had  a 
narrow  escape  there,"  she  thought.  "Poor  little  Til- 

44 


Business  and  pleasure 

lie!  She  is  so  conscientious — I  can  fancy  what  that 
lie  cost  her ! ' ' 

Gathering  up  her  stationery,  she  made  a  movement 
to  rise — but  the  doctor  checked  her  with  a  question. 

"Say !  Not  that  I  want  to  ast  questions  too  close — 
but  what  was  you  writin',  now,  in  that  letter  of 
yourn,  about  Jake  Getz?" 

Miss  Margaret  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  ques- 
tion. She  stared  at  the  man  for  an  instant,  then  help- 
lessly laughed  at  him. 

"Well,"  he  said  apologetically,  "I  don't  mean  to 
be  inquisitive  that  way — but  sometimes  I  speak  un- 
polite  too — fur  all  I  Ve  saw  high  society  a 'ready!" 
he  added,  on  the  defensive.  "Why,  here  one  time  I 
went  in  to  Lancaster  City  to  see  Doc  Hess,  and  he 
would  n't  have  it  no  other  way  but  I  should  stay  and 
eat  along.  'Oeh,'  I  says,  'I  don't  want  to,  I'm  so 
common  that  way,  and  I  know  yous  are  tony  and  it 
don't  do.  I  '11  just  pick  a  piece  [have  luncheon]  at 
the  tavern, '  I  says.  But  no,  he  says  I  was  to  come  eat 
along.  So  then  I  did.  And  his  missus  she  was  won- 
derful fashionable,  but  she  acted  just  that  nice  and 
common  with  me  as  my  own  mother  or  my  wife  yet. 
And  that  was  the  first  time  I  have  eat  what  the  noos- 
papers  calls  a  course  dinner.  They  was  three  courses. 
First  they  was  soup  and  nothin'  else  settin'  on  the 
table,  and  then  a  colored  young  lady  come  in  with 
such  a  silver  pan  and  such  a  flat,  wide  knife,  and  she 
scraped  the  crumbs  off  between  every  one  of  them 
three  courses.  I  felt  awful  funny.  I  tell  you  they 
was  tony.  I  sayed  to  the  missus,  'I  hadn't  ought  to 

45 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

of  came  here.  I  'm  not  grand  enough  like  yous ' ;  but 
she  sayed,  'It  's  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  you  're  al- 
ways welcome.'  Yes,  she  made  herself  that  nice  and 
common ! ' '  concluded  the  doctor.  ' '  So  you  see  I  have 
saw  high  society." 

* '  Yes, ' '  Miss  Margaret  assented. 

"Say!"  he  suddenly  put  another  question  to  her. 
"Why  don't  you  get  married?" 

"Well,"  she  parried,  "why  don't  you?" 

"I  was  married  a 'ready.  My  wife  she  died  fur  me. 
She  was  layin'  three  months.  She  got  so  sore  layin'. 
It  was  when  we  was  stoppin'  over  in  Chicago  yet. 
That  's  out  in  Illinois.  Then,  when  she  died,— och," 
he  said  despondently,  "there  fur  a  while  I  didn't 
take  no  interest  in  nothin'  no  more.  When  your  wife 
dies,  you  don't  feel  fur  nothin'.  Yes,  yes,"  he  sighed, 
"people  have  often  troubles!  Oh,"  he  granted,  "I 
went  to  see  other  women  since.  But,"  shaking  his 
head  in  discouragement,  ' '  it  did  n  't  go.  I  think  I  'm 
better  off  if  I  stay  single.  Yes,  I  stay  single  yet. 
Well,"  he  reconsidered  the  question,  his  head  on  one 
side  as  he  examined  the  fair  lady  before  him,  "if  I 
could  get  one  to  suit  me  oncet." 

Miss  Margaret  grew  alarmed.  But  the  doctor  com- 
placently continued,  "When  my  wife  died  fur  me 
I  moved  .fu'ther  west,  and  I  got  out  as  fur  as  Utah 
yet.  That  's  where  they  have  more  'n  one  wife.  I 
thought,  now,  that  there  was  a  poor  practice!  One 
woman  would  do  me.  Say ! "  he  again  fixed  her  with 
his  eye. 

"What?" 

46 


Business  and  pleasure 

"Do  you  like  your  job?" 

"Well,"  she  tentatively  answered,  "it  's  not  unin- 
teresting. ' ' 

"Would  you  ruther  keep  your  job  than  quit  and 
get  married?" 

"That  depends-" 

"Or,"  quickly  added  the  doctor,  "you  might  jus' 
keep  on  teaehin'  the  school  after  you  was  married, 
if  you  married  some  one  livin'  right  here.  Ain't? 
And  if  you  kep '  on  the  right  side  of  the  School  Board. 
Unlest  you  'd  ruther  marry  a  town  fellah  and  give 
up  your  job  out  here.  Some  thinks  the  women  out 
liere  has  to  work  too  hard ;  but  if  they  married  a 
man  where  [who]  was  well  fixed,"  he  said,  insinu- 
atingly, "he  could  hire  fur  'em  [keep  a  servant]. 
Now,  there  's  me.  I  'm  well  fixed.  I  got  money 
plenty. ' ' 

"You  are  very  fortunate,"  said  Miss  Margaret, 
sympathetically. 

' '  Yes,  ain  't  ?  And  I  ain  't  got  no  one  dependent  on 
me,  neither.  No  brothers,  no  sisters,  no— wife— "  he 
looked  at  her  with  an  ingratiating  smile.  ' '  Some  says 
I  'm  better  off  that  way,  but  sometimes  I  think  dif- 
ferent. Sometimes  I  think  I  'd  like  a  wife  oncet." 

"Yes?"  said  Miss  Margaret. 

"Um — m,"  nodded  the  doctor.  "Yes,  and  I  'm 
pretty  well  fixed.  I  wasn't  always  so  comfortable 
off.  It  went  a  long  while  till  I  got  to  doin'  pretty 
good,  and  sometimes  I  got  tired  waitin'  fur  my  luck 
to  come.  It  made  me  ugly  dispositioned,  my  bad  luck 
did.  That  's  how  I  got  in  the  way  of  addicting  to 

47 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

profane  language.  I  sayed,  still,  I  wisht,  now,  the 
good  Lord  would  try  posperity  on  me  fur  a  while — 
fur  adwersity  certainly  ain't  makin'  me  a  child  of 
Gawd,  I  sayed.  But  now,"  he  added,  rubbing  his 
knees  with  satisfaction,  "I  'm  fixed  nice.  Besides  my 
doctor's  fees,  I  got  ten  acres,  and  three  good  hominies 
that  '11  be  cows  till  a  little  while  yet.  And  that  there 
organ  in  the  front  room  is  my  property.  Bought  it 
fifteen  years  ago  on  the  instalment  plan.  I  leave 
missus  keep  it  settin'  in  her  parlor  fur  style  that  way. 
Do  you  play  the  organ  ? ' ' 

"I  can,"  was  Miss  Margaret's  qualified  answer. 

"I  always  liked  music— high-class  music— like 
'Pinnyfore.'  That  's  a  nopery  I  heard  in  Lancaster 
there  one  time  at  the  rooft-garden.  That  was  high- 
toned  music,  you  bet.  No  trash  about  that.  Gimme 
somepin  nice  and  ketchy.  That  's  what  I  like.  If  it 
ain't  ketchy,  I  don't  take  to  it.  And  so,"  he  added 
admiringly,  "you  can  play  the  organ  too!" 

"That  's  one  of  my  distinguished  accomplish- 
ments," said  Miss  Margaret. 

"Well,  say!"  The  doctor  leaned  forward  and  took 
her  into  his  confidence.  "I  don't  mind  if  my  wife 
is  smart,  so  long  as  she  don't  bother  me  any!" 

With  this  telling  climax,  the  significance  of  which 
Miss  Margaret  could  hardly  mistake,  the  doctor  fell 
back  again  in  his  chair,  and  regarded  with  compla- 
cency the  comely  young  woman  before  him. 

But  before  she  could  collect  her  shocked  wits  to 
reply,  the  entrance  of  Jake  Getz's  son,  Sammy,  inter- 
rupted them.  He  had  come  into  the  house  at  the 

48 


Business  and  pleasure 

kitchen  door,  and,  having  announced  the  object  of 
his  errand  to  the  landlady,  who,  by  the  way,  was  his 
father's  sister,  he  was  followed  into  the  sitting-room 
by  a  procession,  consisting  of  his  aunt,  her  husband, 
and  their  two  little  daughters. 

Sammy  was  able  to  satisfy  but  meagerly  the  eager 
curiosity  or  interest  of  the  household  as  to  Tillie's 
illness,  and  his  aunt,  cousins,  and  uncle  presently  re- 
turned to  their  work  in  the  kitchen  or  out  of  doors, 
while  the  doctor  rose  reluctantly  to  go  to  the  stables 
to  hitch  up. 

"Pop  says  to  say  you  should  hurry/'  said  Sammy. 

"There  's  time  plenty,"  petulantly  answered  the 
doctor.  "I  conceited  I  'd  stay  settin'  with  you  this 
evening,"  he  said  regretfully  to  Miss  Margaret. 
"But  a  doctor  can't  never  make  no  plans  to  stay  no- 
wheres !  Well ! "  he  sighed,  "I  '11  go  round  back  now 
and  hitch  a  while." 

"Sammy,"  said  Miss  Margaret,  when  she  found 
herself  alone  with  the  child,  "wasn't  your  mother 
afraid  you  would  get  ill,  coming  over  here,  on  such  a 
cool  evening,  barefooted?" 

"Och,  no;  she  leaves  me  let  my  shoes  off  near  till 
it  snows  already.  The  teacher  we  had  last  year  he 
used  to  do  worse  'n  that  yet! — he  'd  wash  his  feet  in 
the  winter-time!"  said  Sammy,  in  the  tone  of  one 
relating  a  deed  of  valor.  "I  heard  Aunty  Em  speak 
how  he  washed  'em  as  much  as  oncet  a  week,  still, 
in  winter!  The  Doc  he  sayed  no  wonder  that  feller 
took  cold!" 

Miss  Margaret  gazed  at  the  child  with  a  feeling  of 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

fascination.  "But,  Sammy,"  she  said  wonderingly, 
"your  front  porches  get  a  weekly  bath  in  winter— 
do  the  people  of  New  Canaan  wash  their  porches 
oftener  than  they  wash  themselves?" 

"Porches  gets  dirty,"  reasoned  Sammy.  "Folks 
don't  get  dirty  in  winter- time.  Summer  's  the  time 
they  get  dirty,  and  then  they  mebbe  wash  in  the 
run." 

"Oh!"  said  Miss  Margaret. 

During  the  six  weeks  of  her  life  in  Canaan,  she  had 
never  once  seen  in  this  or  any  other  household  the 
least  sign  of  any  toilet  appointments,  except  a  tin 
basin  at  the  pump,  a  roller-towel  on  the  porch,  and  a 
small  mirror  in  the  kitchen.  Tooth-brushes,  she  had 
learned,  were  almost  unknown  in  the  neighborhood, 
nearly  every  one  of  more  than  seventeen  years  wearing 
"  store- teeth. "  It  was  a  matter  of  much  speculation 
to  her  that  these  people,  who  thought  it  so  essential 
to  keep  their  houses,  especially  their  front  porches, 
immaculately  scrubbed,  should  never  feel  an  equal 
necessity  as  to  their  own  persons. 

The  doctor  came  to  the  door  and  told  Sammy  he 
was  ready.  "I  wouldn't  do  it  to  go  such  a  muddy 
night  like  what  this  is,"  he  ruefully  declared  to  Miss 
Margaret,  "if  I  didn't  feel  it  was  serious;  Jake  Getz 
wouldn't  spend  any  hirin'  a  doctor,  without  it  was 
some  serious.  I  'm  sorry  I  got  to  go." 

"Good-night,  Sammy,"  said  Miss  Margaret.  "Give 
Tillie  my  love;  and  if  she  is  not  able  to  come  to 
school  to-morrow,  I  shall  go  to  see  her." 


"NOVELS  AIN'T  MORAL,  DOC!" 

still  lay  on  the  kitchen  settee,  her  father 
J_  sitting  at  her  side,  when  the  doctor  and  Sammy 
arrived.  The  other  children  had  all  been  put  to  bed, 
and  Mrs.  Getz,  seated  at  the  kitchen  table,  was  work- 
ing on  a  pile  of  mending  by  the  light  of  a  small  lamp. 

The  doctor's  verdict,  when  he  had  examined  his 
patient's  tongue,  felt  her  pulse,  and  taken  her  tem- 
perature, was  not  clear. 

"She  's  got  a  high  fever.  That  's  all  the  fu'ther 
I  can  go  now.  What  it  may  turn  to  till  morning,  I 
can't  tell  till  morning.  Give  her  these  powders  every 
hour,  without  she  's  sleeping.  That  's  the  most  that 
she  needs  just  now. ' ' 

"Yes,  if  she  can  keep  them  powders  down,"  said 
Mr.  Getz,  doubtfully.  "She  can't  keep  nothin'  with 
her." 

"Well,  keep  on  giving  them,  anyhow.  She  's  a 
pretty  sick  child." 

"You  ain't  no  fears  of  smallpox,  are  you?"  Mrs. 
Getz  inquired.  "Mister  was  afraid  it  might  mebbe 
be  smallpox, ' '  she  said,  indicating  her  husband  by  the 
epithet. 

"Not  that  you  say  that  I  sayed  it  was!"  Mr.  Getz 

53 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

warned  the  doctor.  "We  don't  want  no  report  put 
out !  But  is  they  any  symptoms  ? ' ' 

"Oeh,  no,"  the  doctor  reassured  them.  "It  ain't 
smallpox.  What  did  you  give  her  that  she  couldn't 
keep  with  her?" 

' '  I  fed  some  boiled  milk  to  her. ' ' 

"Did  she  drink  tea?"  he  inquired,  looking  pro- 
found. 

"We  don't  drink  no  store  tea,"  Mrs.  Getz  an- 
swered him.  "We  drink  peppermint  tea  fur  supper, 
still.  Tillie  she  did  n  't  drink  none  this  evening.  Some 
says  store  tea  's  bad  fur  the  nerves.  I  ain't  got  no 
nerves,"  she  went  on  placidly.  "Leastways,  I  ain't 
never  felt  none,  so  fur.  Mister  he  likes  the  pepper- 
mint." 

"And  it  comes  cheaper,"  said  Mister. 

"Mebbe  you  've  been  leavin'  Tillie  work  too  much 
in  the  hot  sun  out  in  the  fields  with  you?"  the  doctor 
shot  a  keen  glance  at  the  father;  for  Jake  Getz  was 
known  to  all  Canaan  Township  as  a  man  that  got  more 
work  out  of  his  wife  and  children  than  any  other 
farmer  in  the  district. 

"After  school,  some,"  Mr.  Getz  replied.  "But  not 
fur  long  at  a  time,  fur  it  gets  late  a 'ready  till  she  gets 
home.  Anyhow,  it  's  healthy  fur  her  workin'  in  the 
fields.  I  guess,"  he  speculated,  "it  was  her  settin' 
xtp  in  bed  readin'  last  night  done  it.  I  don't  know 
right  how  long  it  went  that  she  was  readin'  before  I 
seen  the  light,  but  it  was  near  morning  a 'ready,  and 
she  'd  burned  near  a  whole  candle  out." 

"And  mebbe  you  punished  her?"  the  doctor  in- 
quired, holding  his  hand  to  Tillie 's  temples. 


"  Novels  ain't  moral,  Doc !  " 

"Well,"  nodded  Mr.  Getz,  "I  guess  she  won't  be 
doin'  somepin  like  that  soon  again.  I  think,  still,  I 
mebbe  used  the  strap  too  hard,  her  bein'  a  girl  that 
way.  But  a  body  's  got  to  learn  'em  when  they  're 
young,  you  know.  And  here  it  was  a  novel-bookl 
She  borrowed  the  loan  of  it  off  of  Elviny  Dinkle- 
berger !  I  chucked  it  in  the  fire !  I  don 't  uphold  to 
novel-readin ' ! " 

"Well,  now,"  argued  the  doctor,  settling  back  in 
his  chair,  crossing  his  legs,  and  thrusting  his  rhumbs 
into  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest,  "some  chance  times  I 
read  in  such  a  'Home  Companion'  paper,  and  here 
this  winter  I  read  a  piece  in  nine  chapters.  I  make  no 
doubt  that  was  a  novel.  Leastways,  I  guess  you  'd 
call  it  a  novel.  And  that  piece,"  he  said  impressively, 
"wouldn't  hurt  nobody!  It  learns  you.  That 
piece,"  he  insisted,  "was  got  up  by  a  moral  person." 

' '  Then  I  guess  it  was  n  't  no  novel,  Doc, ' '  Mr.  Getz 
firmly  maintained.  "Anybody  knows  novels  ain't 
moral.  Anyhow,  I  ain't  havin'  none  in  my  house. 
If  I  see  any,  they  get  burnt  up." 

"It  's  a  pity  you  burnt  it  up,  Jake.  I  like  to  come 
by  somepin  like  that,  still,  to  pass  the  time  when  there 
ain't  much  doin'.  How  did  Elviny  Dinkleberger 
come  by  such  a  novel  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  If  I  see  her  pop,  I  '11  tell  him  he 
better  put  a  stop  to  such  behaviors." 

Tillie  stirred  restlessly  on  her  pillow. 

"What  was  the  subjeck  of  that  there  novel,  Tillie?" 
the  doctor  asked. 

"Its  subjeck  was  'Iwanhoe,'  "  Mr.  Getz  answered. 
"Yes,  I  chucked  it  right  in  the  stove." 

-    55 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 


exclaimed  the  doctor.  "Why,  El- 
viny must  of  borrowed  the  loan  of  that  off  of  Teacher 
—I  seen  Teacher  have  it." 

Tillie  turned  pleading  eyes  upon  his  face,  but  he 
did  not  see  her. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  demanded  Mr.  Getz,  "that 
Teacher  lends  novels  to  the  scholars  !  '  ' 

"Och!"  said  the  doctor,  suddenly  catching  the 
frantic  appeal  of  Tillie  's  eyes,  and  answering  it  with 
ready  invention,  "what  am  I  talkin'  about!  It  was 
Elviny  lent  it  to  Aunty  Em's  little  Rebecca  at  the 
hotel,  and  Teacher  was  tellin'  Rebecca  she  mustn  't 
read  it,  but  give  it  back  right  aways  to  Elviny." 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  Getz,  "a  teacher  that  would  lend 
novels  to  the  scholars  would  n  't  stay  long  at  William 
Penn  if  my  wote  could  put  her  out  !  And  there  's 
them  on  the  Board  that  thinks  just  like  what  I 
think!" 

"To  be  sure!"  the  doctor  soothed  him.  "To  be 
sure  !  Yes,  '  '  he  romanced,  '  '  Rebecca  she  lent  that 
book  off  of  Elviny  Dinkleberger,  and  Teacher  she  tole 
Rebecca  to  give  it  back." 

"I  '11  speak  somepin  to  Elviny  's  pop,  first  time  I 
see  him,  how  Elviny  's  lendin'  a  novel  to  the  schol- 
ars!" affirmed  Mr.  Getz. 

"You  needn't  trouble,"  said  the  doctor,  coolly. 
"  Elviny  's  pop  he  give  Elviny  that  there  book  last 
Christmas.  I  don't  know  what  he  '11  think,  Jake, 
at  your  burnin'  it  up." 

Tillie  was  gazing  at  the  doctor,  now,  half  in  be- 
wilderment, half  in  passionate  gratitude. 

56 


"  Novels  aint  moral,  Doc  !  " 

"If  Tillie  did  get  smallpox,"  Mrs.  Getz  here  broke 
in,  "would  she  mebbe  have  to  be  took  to  the  pest- 
house  ? ' ' 

Tillie  started,  and  her  feverish  eyes  sought  in  the 
face  of  the  doctor  to  know  what  dreadful  place  a 
"pest-house"  might  be. 

"Whether  she  'd  have  to  be  took  to  the  pest- 
house?"  the  doctor  inquiringly  repeated.  "Yes,  if 
she  took  the  smallpox.  But  she  ain't  takin'  it.  You 
needn't  worry." 

"Doctors  don't  know  near  as  much  now  as  what 
they  used  to,  still, ' '  Mr.  Getz  affirmed.  ' '  They  did  n  't 
have  to  have  no  such  peat-houses  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Leastways,  they  didn't  have  'em.  And  they  didn't 
never  ketch  such  diseases  like  'pendycitis  and  grip 
and  them." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Jake  Getz,  that  you  pass  it 
as  your  opinion  us  doctors  don 't  know  more  now  than 
what  they  used  to  know  thirty  years  ago,  when  you 
was  a  boy?" 

"Of  course  they  don't,"  was  the  dogmatic  re- 
joinder. "Nor  nobody  knows  as  much  now  as  they 
did  in  ancient  times  a 'ready.  I  mean  back  in  Bible 
times." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  hotly  argued  the  doctor, 
"that  they  had  automobiles  in  them  days?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do!  Automobiles  and  all  the  other 
lost  sciences!" 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  restraining  his  scorn  with 
a  mighty  effort,  "I  'd  like  to  see  you  prove  it  oncet!" 

"I  can  prove  it  right  out  of  the  Bible!    Do  you 

57 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

want  better  proof  than  that,  Doc !  The  Bible  says  in 
so  many  words,  '  There  's  nothing  new  under  the  sun. ' 
There!  You  can't  come  over  that  there,  can  you? 
You  don't  consider  into  them  things  enough,  Doc. 
You  ain  't  a  religious  man,  that  's  the  trouble ! ' ' 

"I  got  religion  a  plenty,  but  I  don't  hold  to  no  sich 
dumm  thoughts ! ' ' 

"Did  you  get  your  religion  at  Bethel  rewiwal?" 
Mrs.  Getz  quickly  asked,  glancing  up  from  the  little 
stocking  she  was  darning,  to  look  with  some  interest 
at  the  doctor.  "I  wanted  to  go  over  oneet  before  the 
rewiwal 's  done.  But  now  Tillie 's  sick ,  mebbe  I  won 't 
get  to  go  fur  all.  When  they  have  rewiwals  at  Bethel 
they  always  make  so!  And,"  she  added,  resuming 
her  darning,  "I  like  to  see  'em  jump  that  way.  My, 
but  they  jump,  now,  when  they  get  happy!  But  I 
did  n  't  get  to  go  this  year  yet. ' ' 

"Well,  and  don't  you  get  affected  too?"  the  doctor 
asked,  ' '  and  go  out  to  the  mourners '  bench  ? ' ' 

"If  I  do?  No,  I  go  just  to  see  'em  jump,"  she 
monotonously  repeated.  "I  wasn't  never  conwerted. 
Mister  he  's  a  hard  Evangelical,  you  know." 

"And  what  does  he  think  of  your  unconwerted 
state?"  the  doctor  jocularly  inquired. 

"What  he  thinks?  There  's  nothing  to  think," 
was  the  stolid  answer. 

"Up  there  to  Bethel  rewiwal,"  said  Mr.  Getz,  "they 
don't  stay  conwerted.  Till  rewiwal  's  over,  they  're 
off  church  again." 

"It  made  awful  funny  down  there  this  two  weeks 
back,"  repeated  Mrs.  Getz.  "They  jumped  so.  Now 

58 


"  Novels  ain't  moral,  Doc !  " 

there  's  the  Lutherans,  they  don't  make  nothin'  when 
they  conwert  themselves.  They  don't  jump  nor  noth- 
in'. I  don't  like  their  meetin's.  It  's  onhandy  Tillie 
got  sick  fur  me  just  now.  I  did  want  to  go  oncet. 
Here  's  all  this  mendin'  she  could  have  did,  too. 
She  's  handier  at  sewin'  than  what  I  am,  still.  I  al- 
ways had  so  much  other  work,  I  never  come  at  sewin ', 
and  I  'm  some  dopplig  at  it." 

"Yes? — yes,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  to  go.  "Well, 
Tillie,  good-by,  and  don't  set  up  nights  any  more 
readin'  novels,"  he  laughed. 

"She  ain't  likely  to,"  said  her  father.  "My  chil- 
dern  don't  generally  do  somepin  like  that  again  after 
I  once  ketch  'em  at  it.  Ain't  so,  Tillie?  Well,  then, 
Doc,  you  think  she  ain't  serious?" 

"I  said  I  can't  tell  till  I  've  saw  her  again  a 'ready." 

"How  long  will  it  go  till  you  come  again?" 

"Well,"  the  doctor  considered,  "it  looks  some  fur 
fallin'  weather — ain't?  If  it  rains  and  the  roads  are 
muddy  till  morning,  so  's  I  can't  drive  fast,  I  won't 
mebbe  be  here  till  ten  o'clock." 

"Oh,  doctor,"  whispered  Tillie,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
tress, "can't  I  go  to  school?  Can't  I?  I '11  be  well 
enough,  won't  I?  It  's  Friday  to-morrow,  and  I — I 
want  to  go!"  she  sobbed.  "I  want  to  go  to  Miss 
Margaret!" 

"No,  you  can't  go  to  school  to-morrow,  Tillie,"  her 
father  said,  "even  if  you  're  some  better;  I  'm  keep- 
in'  you  home  to  lay  still  one  day  anyhow." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  stay  home!"  the  child  ex- 
claimed, casting  off  the  shawl  with  which  her  father 

59 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

had  covered  her  and  throwing  out  her  arms.  ' '  I  want 
to  go  to  school!  I  want  to,  pop!"  she  sobbed,  almost 
screaming.  ' '  I  want  to  go  to  Miss  Margaret !  I  will, 
I  will!" 

''Tillie— Tillie !"  her  father  soothed  her  in  that  un- 
wonted tone  of  gentleness  that  sounded  so  strange  to 
her.  His  face  had  turned  pale  at  her  outcries,  deli- 
rious they  seemed  to  him,  coming  from  his  usually 
meek  and  submissive  child.  "There  now,"  he  said, 
drawing  the  cover  over  her  again;  "now  lay  still  and 
be  a  good  girl,  ain't  you  will?" 

"Will  you  leave  me  go  to  school  to-morrow?"  she 
pleaded  piteously.  "Dare  I  go  to  school  to-morrow?" 

"No,  you  dassent,  Tillie.  But  if  you  're  a  good 
girl,  mebbe  I  '11  leave  Sammy  ast  Teacher  to  come  to 
see  you  after  school." 

' '  Oh,  pop ! ' '  breathed  the  child  ecstatically,  as  in 
supreme  contentment  she  sank  back  again  on  her  pil- 
low. "I  wonder  will  she  come?  Do  you  think  she 
will  come  to  see  me,  mebbe  ? ' ' 

"To  be  sure  will  she." 

"Now  think,"  said  the  doctor,  "how  much  she  sets 
store  by  Teacher !  And  a  lot  of  'em  's  the  same  way- 
girls  and  boys. ' ' 

"I  didn't  know  she  was  so  much  fur  Teacher," 
said  Mr.  Getz.  "She  never  spoke  nothinV 

"She  never  spoke  nothin'  to  me  about  it  neither," 
said  Mrs.  Getz. 

"Well,  I  '11  give  you  all  good-by,  then,"  said  the 
doctor;  and  he  went  away. 

On  his  slow  journey  home  through  the  mud  he 

60 


"  Novels  ain't  moral.  Doc !  " 

mused  on  the  inevitable  clash  which  he  foresaw  must 
some  day  come  between  the  warm-hearted  teacher 
(whom  little  Tillie  so  loved,  and  who  so  injudiciously 
lent  her  "novel-books")  and  the  stern  and  influential 
school  director,  Jacob  Getz. 

"There  my  chanct  comes  in,"  thought  the  doctor; 
"there  's  where  I  mebbe  put  in  my  jaw  and  pop  the 
question — just  when  Jake  Getz  is  makin'  her  trouble 
and  she  's  gettin'  chased  off  her  job.  I  passed  my 
word  I  'd  stand  by  her,  and,  by  gum,  I  '11  do  it! 
When  she  's  out  of  a  job — that  's  the  time  she  '11  be 
dead  easy!  Ain't?  She  's  the  most  allurin'  female 
I  seen  since  my  wife  up't  and  died  fur  me!" 


VI 

JAKE   GETZ   IN   A  QUANDARY 

rillLLIE'S  illness,  though  severe  while  it  lasted, 
JL  proved  to  be  a  matter  of  only  a  few  days'  con- 
finement to  bed ;  and  fortunately  for  her,  it  was  while 
she  was  still  too  weak  and  ill  to  be  called  to  account 
for  her  misdeed  that  her  father  discovered  her  de- 
ception as  to  the  owner  of  "Ivanhoe."  At  least  he 
found  out,  in  talking  with  Elviny  Dinkleberger  and 
her  father  at  the  Lancaster  market,  that  the  girl  was 
innocent  of  ever  having  owned  or  even  seen  the  book, 
and  that,  consequently,  she  had  of  course  never  lent 
it  either  to  Rebecca  Wackernagel  at  the  hotel  or  to 
Tillie. 

Despite  his  rigorous  dealings  with  his  family 
(which,  being  the  outcome  of  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch 
faith  in  the  Divine  right  of  the  head  of  the  house, 
were  entirely  conscientious),  Jacob  Getz  was  strongly 
and  deeply  attached  to  his  wife  and  children ;  and  his 
alarm  at  Tillie 's  illness,  coming  directly  upon  his 
severe  punishment  of  her,  had  softened  him  suffi- 
ciently to  temper  his  wrath  at  finding  that  she  had 
told  him  what  was  not  true. 

What  her  object  could  have  been  in  shielding  the 
real  owner  of  the  book  he  could  not  guess.  His  sus- 

62 


Jake  Getz  in  a  quandary 

picions  did  not  turn  upon  the  teacher,  because,  in 
the  first  place,  he  would  have  seen  no  reason  why 
Tillie  should  wish  to  shield  her,  and,  in  the  second, 
it  was  inconceivable  that  a  teacher  at  William  Penn 
should  set  out  so  to  pervert  the  young  whom  trusting 
parents  placed  under  her  care.  There  never  had  been 
a  novel-reading  teacher  at  William  Penn.  The  Board 
would  as  soon  have  elected  an  opium-eater. 

Where  had  Tillie  obtained  that  book?  And  why  had 
she  put  the  blame  on  Elviny,  who  was  her  little 
friend?  The  Doc,  evidently,  was  in  league  with 
Tillie!  What  could  it  mean?  Jake  Getz  was  not 
used  to  dealing  with  complications  and  mysteries. 
He  pondered  the  case  heavily. 

When  he  went  home  from  market,  he  did  not  tell 
Tillie  of  his  discovery,  for  the  doctor  had  ordered 
that  she  be  kept  quiet. 

Not  until  a  week  later,  when  she  was  well  enough 
to  be  out  of  bed,  did  he  venture  to  tell  her  he  had 
caught  her  telling  a  falsehood. 

He  could  not  know  that  the  white  face  of  terror 
which  she  turned  to  him  was  fear  for  Miss  Margaret 
and  not,  for  once,  apprehension  of  the  strap. 

"I  ain't  whippin'  you  this  time,"  he  gruffly  said, 
' '  if  you  tell  me  the  truth  whose  that  there  book  was. '  * 

Tillie  did  not  speak.  She  was  resting  in  the  wooden 
rocking-chair  by  the  kitchen  window,  a  pillow  at  her 
head  and  a  shawl  over  her  knees.  Her  stepmother 
was  busy  at  the  table  with  her  Saturday  baking; 
Sammy  was  giving  the  porch  its  Saturday  cleaning, 
and  the  other  children,  too  little  to  work,  were  play- 

63 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

ing  outdoors;  even  the  baby,  bundled  up  in  its  cart, 
was  out  on  the  grass-plot. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Tiilie?  Whose  book  was  that 
there?" 

Tillie 's  head  hung  low  and  her  very  lips  were 
white.  She  did  not  answer. 

"You  're  goin'  to  act  stubborn  to  me!"  her  father 
incredulously  exclaimed,  and  the  woman  at  the  table 
turned  and  stared  in  dull  amazement  at  this  un- 
heard-of defiance  of  the  head  of  the  family.  "Til- 
lie!"  he  grasped  her  roughly  by  the  arm  and  shook 
her.  "Answer  to  me!" 

Tillie 's  chest  rose  and  fell  tumultuously.  But  she 
kept  her  eyes  downcast  and  her  lips  closed. 

"Fur  why  don't  you  want  to  tell,  then?" 

"I— can't,  pop!" 

"Can't!  If  you  was  n't  sick  I  'd  soon  learn  you 
if  you  can't!  Now  you  might  as  well  tell  me  right 
aways,  fur  I  'ii  make  you  tell  me  some  time !" 

Tillie 's  lips  quivered  and  the  tears  rolled  slowly 
over  her  white  cheeks. 

"Fur  why  did  you  say  it  was  Elviny?" 

"She  was  the  only  person  I  thought  to  say." 

"But  fur  why  did  n't  you  Bay  the  person  it  was? 
Answer  to  me ! "  he  commanded. 

Tillie  curved  her  arm  over  her  face  and  sobbed. 
She  was  still  too  weak  from  her  fever  to  bear  the 
strain  of  this  unequal  contest  of  wills. 

"Well,"  concluded  her  father,  his  anger  baffled 
and  impotent  before  the  child's  weakness,  "I  won't 
bother  you  with  it  no  more  now.  But  you  just  wait 

64 


Jake  Getz  in  a  quandary 

till  you  're  well  oncet!  We  '11  see  then  if  you  '11 
tell  me  what  I  ast  you  or  no!" 

"Here  's  the  Doc,"  announced  Mrs.  Getz,  as  the 
sound  of  wheels  was  heard  outside  the  gate. 

"Well,"  her  husband  said  indignantly  as  he  rose 
and  went  to  the  door,  "I  just  wonder  what  he  's  got 
to  say  fur  hisself,  lyin'  to  me  like  what  he  done!" 

"Hello,  Jake!"  was  the  doctor's  breezy  greeting 
as  he  walked  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  a  brood 
of  curious  little  Getzes,  to  whom  the  doctor's  daily 
visits  were  an  exciting  episode.  "Howdy-do,  missus," 
he  briskly  addressed  the  mother  of  the  brood,  pushing 
his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head  in  lieu  of  raising  it. 
"And  how  's  the  patient?"  he  inquired  with  a  sud- 
denly professional  air  and  tone.  "Some  better,  heh? 
Heh  f  Been  cryin ' !  What  fur  ? "  he  demanded,  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Getz.  "Say,  Jake,  you  ain't  been  bad- 
gerin'  this  kid  again  fur  somepin?  She  '11  be  havin' 
a  relapse  if  you  don't  leave  her  be!" 

"It  's  you  I  'm  wantin'  to  badger,  Doc  Weaver!" 
retorted  Mr.  Getz.  "What  fur  did  you  lie  to  me 
about  that  there  piece  entitled  'Iwanhoe'?" 

' '  You  and  your  '  Iwanhoe '  be  blowed !  Are  you  tor- 
mentin'  this  here  kid  about  that  yet?  A  body  'd 
think  you  'd  want  to  change  that  subjee',  Jake 
Getz!" 

"Not  till  I  find  from  you,  Doc,  whose  that  there 
novel-book  was,  and  why  you  tole  me  it  was  Elviny 
Dinkleberger 's ! " 

"That  's  easy  tole,"  responded  the  doctor.  "That 
there  book  belonged  to — " 

65 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"No,  Doc,  no,  no!"  came  a  pleading  cry  from 
Tillie.  " Don't  tell,  Doc,  please  don't  tell!" 

"Never  you  mind,  Tillie,  that 's  all  right.  Look 
here,  Jake  Getz ! ' '  The  doctor  turned  his  sharp  little 
eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  father  grown  dark  with 
anger  at  his  child's  undutiful  interference.  "You  're 
got  this  here  little  girl  worked  up  to  the  werge  of  a 
relapse!  I  tole  you  she  must  be  kep'  quiet  and  not 
worked  up  still ! ' ' 

"All  right.  I  'm  leavin'  her  alone— till  she  's  well 
oncet!  You  just  answer  fur  yourself  and  tell  why 
you  lied  to  me!" 

"Well,  Jake,  it  was  this  here  way.  That  there 
book  belonged  to  me  and  Tillie  lent  it  off  of  me. 
That  's  how !  Ain  't  Tillie  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Getz  stared  in  stupefied  wonder,  while  Mrs. 
Getz,  too,  looked  on  with  a  dull  interest,  as  she  leaned 
her  back  against  the  sink  and  dried  her  hands  upon 
her  apron. 

As  for  Tillie,  a  great  throb  of  relief  thrilled 
through  her  as  she  heard  the  doctor  utter  this  Napo- 
leonic lie — only  to  be  followed  the  next  instant  by  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  her  own  wickedness  in  thus 
conniving  with  fraud.  Abysses  of  iniquity  seemed 
to  yawn  at  her  feet,  and  she  gazed  with  horror  into 
their  black  depths.  How  could  she  ever  again  hold 
up  her  head. 

But — Miss  Margaret,  at  least,  was  safe  from  the 
School  Board's  wrath  and  indignation,  and  how  un- 
important, compared  with  that,  was  her  own  soul's 
salvation ! 

66 


Jake  Getz  in  a  quandary 

"Why  did  n't  Tillie  say  it  was  yourn?"  Mr.  Getz 
presently  found  voice  to  ask. 

"I  tole  her  if  she  left  it  get  put  out  I  am  addicted 
to  novel  readin ', ' '  said  the  doctor  glibly,  and  with  evi- 
dent relish,  "it  might  spoil  my  practice  some.  And 
Tillie  she  's  that  kind-hearted  she  was  sorry  fur  me!" 

"And  so  you  put  her  up  to  say  it  was  Elviny's! 
You  put  her  up  to  tell  lies  to  her  pop!" 

"Well,  I  never  thought  you  'd  f oiler  it  up  any, 
Jake,  and  try  to  get  Elviny  into  trouble." 

"Doc,  I  always  knowed  you  was  a  blasphemer  and 
that  you  did  n't  have  no  religion.  But  I  thought  you 
had  anyhow  morals.  And  I  did  n't  think,  now,  you 
was  a  coward  that  way,  to  get  behind  a  child  and  lie 
out  of  your  own  evil  deeds!" 

"I  'm  that  much  a  coward  and  a  blasp/temer, 
Jake,  that  I  'm  goin'  to  add  the  cost  of  that  there 
book  of  mine  where  you  burnt  up,  to  your  doctor's 
bill,  unlest  you  pass  me  your  promise  you  '11  drop 
this  here  suojec'  and  not  bother  Tillie  with  it  no 
more. ' ' 

The  doctor  had  driven  his  victim  into  a  corner. 
To  yield  a  point  in  family  discipline  or  to  pay  the 
price  of  the  property  he  had  destroyed— one  of  the 
two  he  must  do.  It  was  a  most  untoward  predica- 
ment for  Jacob  Getz. 

"You  had  no  right  to  lend  that  there  book  to  Til- 
lie,  Doc,  and  I  ain't  payin'  you  a  cent  fur  it!"  he 
maintained. 

"I  jus3  mean,  Jake,  I  '11  make  out  my  bill  easy  or 
stiff  accordin'  to  the  way  you  pass  your  promise." 

67 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"If  my  word  was  no  more  better  'n  yours,  Doc, 
my  passin'  my  promise  would  n't  help  much!" 

"That  's  all  right,  Jake.  I  don't  set  up  to  be  re- 
ligious and  moral.  I  ain't  sayed  my  prayers  since 
I  am  old  enough  a 'ready  to  know  how  likely  I  was, 
still,  to  kneel  on  a  tack!" 

"It  's  no  wonder  you  was  put  off  of  church!"  was 
the  biting  retort. 

"Hold  up  there,  Jake.  I  was  n't  put  off.  I  went 
off.  I  took  myself  off  of  church  before  the  brethren 
had  a  chanct  to  put  me  off. ' ' 

"Sammy!"  Mr.  Getz  suddenly  and  sharply  ad- 
monished his  little  son,  who  was  sharpening  his  slate- 
pencil  on  the  window-sill  with  a  table-knife,  "you 
stop  right  aways  sharpenin'  that  pencil!  You  das- 
sent  sharpen  your  slate-pencils,  do  you  hear?  It 
wastes  'em  so!" 

Sammy  hastily  laid  down  the  knife  and  thrust  the 
pencil  into  his  pocket. 

Mr.  Getz  turned  again  to  the  doctor  and  inquired 
irritably,  "What  is  it  to  you  if  I  teach  my  own  child 
to  mind  me  or  not,  I  'd  like  to  know  ? ' ' 

"Because  she  's  been  bothered  into  a  sickness  with 
this  here  thing  a 'ready,  and  it  's  time  it  stopped 
now ! ' ' 

"It  was  you  started  it,  leavin'  her  lend  the  book 
off  of  you ! ' ' 

"That  's  why  I  feel  fur  sparin'  her  some  more 
trouble,  seein'  I  was  the  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
Providence  fur  gettin'  her  into  all  this  here  mess. 
See?" 

68 


Jake  Getz  in  a  quandary 

"'I  can't  be  sure  when  to  know  if  you  're  lyin'  or 
not,"  said  Mr.  Getz  helplessly. 

"Mebbe  you  can't,  Jake.  Sometimes  I  'm  swanged 
if  I  'm  sure,  still,  myself.  But  there  's  one  thing 
you  kin  be  cock-sure  of— and  that  's  a  big  doctor- 
bill  unlest  you  do  what  I  sayed." 

"Now  that  I  know  who  she  lent  the  book  off  of 
there  ain't  nothin'  to  bother  her  about,"  sullenly 
granted  Mr.  Getz.  "And  as  fur  punishment — she  's 
had  punishment  a-plenty,  I  guess,  in  her  bein'  so 
sick. ' ' 

"All  right,"  the  doctor  said  magnanimously. 
"There  's  one  thing  I  '11  give  you,  Jake:  you  're  a 
man  of  your  word,  if  you  are  a  Dutch  hog!" 

"A — whatever?"  Mr.  Getz  angrily  demanded. 

"And  I  don't  see,"  the  doctor  complacently  con- 
tinued, rising  and  pulling  his  hat  down  to  his  eye- 
brows, preparatory  to  leaving,  "where  Tillie  gets  her 
fibbin'  from.  Certainly  not  from  her  pop." 

"I  don't  mind  her  ever  tellin'  me  no  lie  before." 

"Och,  Jake,  you  drive  your  children  to  lie  to  you, 
the  way  you  bring  'em  up  to  be  afraid  of  you.  They 
got  to  lie,  now  and  again,  to  a  feller  like  you !  Well, 
well,"  he  soothingly  added  as  he  saw  the  black  look 
in  the  father's  face  at  the  airing  of  such  views  in  the 
presence  of  his  children,  "never  mind,  Jake,  it  's  all 
in  the  day 's  work ! ' ' 

He  turned  for  a  parting  glance  at  Tillie.  "She  's 
better.  She  '11  be  well  till  a  day  or  two,  now,  and 
back  to  school — if  she  's  kep'  quiet,  and  her  mind 
ain't  bothered  any.  Now,  goodly  to  yous." 

69 


VII 

"THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  PUMP-EYE" 

TT10R  a  long  time  after  her  unhappy  experiences 
JL  with  "Ivanhoe"  Tillie  did  not  again  venture  to 
transgress  against  her  father's  prohibition  of  novels. 
But  her  fear  of  the  family  strap,  although  great,  did 
not  equal  the  keenness  of  her  mental  hunger,  and 
was  not  sufficient,  therefore,  to  put  a  permanent 
check  upon  her  secret  midnight  reading,  though  it 
did  lead  her  to  take  every  precaution  against  detec- 
tion. Miss  Margaret  continued  to  lend  her  books  and 
magazines  from  time  to  time,  and  in  spite  of  the 
child's  reluctance  to  risk  involving  the  teacher  in 
trouble  with  the  School  Board  through  her  father,  she 
accepted  them.  And  so  during  all  this  winter,  through 
her  love  for  books  and  her  passionate  devotion  to  her 
teacher,  the  little  girl  reveled  in  feasts  of  fancy  and 
emotion  and  this  term  at  school  was  the  first  season  of 
real  happiness  her  young  life  had  ever  known. 

Once  on  her  return  from  school  the  weight  of  a 
heavy  volume  had  proved  too  great  a  strain  on  her 
worn  and  thin  undergarment  during  the  long  walk 
home ;  the  skirt  had  torn  away  from  the  band,  and  as 
she  entered  the  kitchen,  her  stepmother  discovered  the 
book. 

70 


"The  Last  Days  of  Pump-eye" 

Tillie  pleaded  with  her  not  to  tell  her  father,  and 
perhaps  she  might  have  succeeded  in  gaming  a  prom- 
ise of  secrecy  had  it  not  happened  that  just  at  the 
critical  moment  her  father  walked  into  the  kitchen. 

Of  course,  then  the  book  was  handed  over  to  him, 
and  Tillie  with  it. 

"Did  you  lend  this  off  the  Doc  again?"  her  father 
sternly  demanded,  the  fated  book  in  one  hand  and 
Tillie 's  shoulder  grasped  in  the  other. 

Tillie  hated  to  utter  the  lie.  She  hoped  she  had 
modified  her  wickedness  a  bit  by  answering  with  a 
nod  of  her  head. 

''What  's  he  mean,  throwin'  away  so  much  money 
on  books  ? ' '  Mr.  Getz  took  time  in  his  anger  to  wonder. 
He  read  the  title,  "  'Last  Days  of  Pump-eye.' 
Well ! "  he  exclaimed,  ' '  this  here  's  the  last  hour 
of  this  here  '  Pump-eye ' !  In  the  stove  she  goes !  I 
don't  owe  the  Doc  no  doctor's  bill  now,  and  I  'd  like 
to  see  him  make  me  pay  him  fur  these  here  novels  he 
leaves  you  lend  off  of  him ! ' ' 

"Please,  please,  pop!"  Tillie  gasped,  "don't  burn 
it.  Give  it  back  to— him!  I  won't  read  it— I  won't 
bring  home  no  more  books  of— hisn!  Only,  please, 
pop,  don't  burn  it — please!" 

For  answer,  he  drew  her  with  him  as  he  strode  to 
the  fireplace.  "I  'm  burnin'  every  book  you  bring 
home,  do  you  hear?"  he  exclaimed;  but  before  he 
could  make  good  his  words,  the  kitchen  door  was 
suddenly  opened,  and  Sammy's  head  was  poked  in, 
with  the  announcement,  "The  Doc's  buggy  's  comin' 
up  the  road  1"  The  door  banged  shut  again,  but  in- 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

stantly  Tillie  wrenched  her  shoulder  free  from  her  fa- 
ther's hand,  flew  out  of  doors  and  dashed  across  the 
"yard"  to  the  front  gate.  Her  father's  voice  fol- 
lowed her,  calling  to  her  from  the  porch  to  "come 
right  aways  back  here ! ' '  Unheeding,  she  frantically 
waved  to  the  doctor  in  his  approaching  buggy. 
Sammy,  with  a  bevy  of  small  brothers  and  sisters, 
to  whom,  no  less  than  to  their  parents,  the  passing  of 
a  "team"  was  an  event  not  to  be  missed,  were  all 
crowded  close  to  the  fence. 

"Some  one  sick  again?"  inquired  the  doctor  as  he 
drew  up  at  Tillie 's  side. 

"No,  Doc— but,"  Tillie  could  hardly  get  her  breath 
to  speak,  "pop  's  goin'  to  burn  up  'Last  Days  of 
Pompeii';  it  's  Miss  Margaret's,  and  he  thinks  it  's 
yourn;  come  in  and  take  it,  Doc — please — and  give 
it  back  to  Miss  Margaret,  won't  you?" 

"Sure!"  The  doctor  was  out  of  his  buggy  at  her 
side  in  an  instant. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Tillie,  "here  's  pop  comin'  with 
the  book!" 

"See  me  fix  him!"  chuckled  the  doctor.  "He  's 
so  dumm  he  '11  b'lee'  most  anything.  If  I  have 
much  more  dealin's  with  your  pop,  Tillie,  I  '11  be 
ketchin'  on  to  how  them  novels  is  got  up  myself. 
And  then  mebbe  I  '11  let  doetorin',  and  go  to  novel- 
writin'!" 

The  doctor  laughed  with  relish  of  his  own  joke, 
as  Mr.  Getz,  grim  with  anger,  stalked  up  to  the 
buggy. 

"Look-ahere!"     His  voice  was  menacing  as   he 

72 


"The  Last  Days  of  Pump-eye" 

held  out  the  open  book  for  Tillie's  inspection,  and 
the  child  turned  cold  as  she  read  on  the  fly-leaf, 

"Margaret  Lind. 

"From  A.  C.  L.          Christmas,  18—" 

"You  sayed  the  Doc  give  it  to  you!  Did  you  lend 
that  other  'n'  off  of  Teacher  too?  Answer  to  me! 
I  '11  have  her  chased  off  of  William  Penn !  I  '11  bring- 
it  up  at  next  Board  meetin' !" 

"Hold  your  whiskers,  Jake,  or  they  '11  blow  off! 
You  're  talkin'  through  your  hat!  Don't  be  so- 
dumm!  Teacher  she  gev  me  that  there  book  because 
she  passed  me  her  opinion  she  don't  stand  by  novel- 
readin'.  She  was  goin'  to  throw  out  that  there  book 
and  I  says  I  'd  take  it  if  she  did  n't  want  it.  So 
then  I  left  Tillie  borrow  the  loan  of  it." 

"So  that  's  how  you  come  by  it,  is  it?'*  Mr.  Getz 
eyed  the  doctor  with  suspicion.  "How  did  you  come 
by  that  there  'Iwanhoe'?" 

"That  there  I  bought  at  the  second-hand  book-store 
in  there  at  Lancaster  one  time.  I  ain't  just  so  much 
fur  books,  but  now  and  again  I  like  to  buy  one  toor 
when  I  see  'em  cheap. ' ' 

"Well,  here!"  Mr.  Getz  tossed  the  book  into  the 
buggy.  "Take  your  old  'Pump-eye.'  And  clear  out. 
If  I  can't  make  you  stop  tryin'  to  spoil  my  child  fur 
me,  I  can  anyways  learn  her  what  she  '11  get  oncet, 
if  she  don't  mind!" 

Again  his  hand  grasped  Tillie's  shoulder  as  he 
turned  her  about  to  take  her  into  the  house. 

73 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"You  better  watch  out,  Jake  Getz,  or  you  '11  have  an- 
other doctor's  bill  to  pay ! "  the  doctor warningly called 
after  him.  "That  girl  of  yourn  ain't  strong  enough 
to  stand  your  rough  handlin',  and  you  '11  find  it  out 
some  day — to  your  regret!  You  'd  better  go  round 
back  and  let  off  your  feelin's  choppin'  wood  fur  mis- 
sus, 'stead  of  hittin'  that  little  girl,  you  big  dopple!" 

Mr.  Getz  stalked  on  without  deigning  to  reply, 
thrusting  Tillie  ahead  of  him.  The  doctor  jumped 
into  his  buggy  and  drove  off. 

His  warning,  however,  was  not  wholly  lost  upon 
the  father.  Tillie 's  recent  illness  had  awakened  re- 
morse for  the  severe  punishment  he  had  given  her  on 
the  eve  of  it;  and  it  had  also  touched  his  purse;  and 
so,  though  she  did  not  escape  punishment  for  this 
second  and,  therefore,  aggravated  offense,  it  was 
meted  out  in  stinted  measure.  And  indeed,  in  her 
relief  and  thankfulness  at  again  saving  Miss  Mar- 
garet, the  child  scarcely  felt  the  few  light  blows 
which,  in  order  that  parental  authority  be  maintained, 
her  father  forced  himself  to  inflict  upon  her. 

In  spite  of  these  mishaps,  however,  Tillie  continued 
to  devour  all  the  books  she  could  lay  hold  of  and  to 
run  perilous  risks  for  the  sake  of  the  delight  she  found 
in  them. 

Miss  Margaret  stood  to  her  for  an  image  of  every 
heroine  of  whom  she  read  in  prose  or  verse,  and  for 
the  realization  of  all  the  romantic  day-dreams  in 
which,  as  an  escape  from  the  joyless  and  sordid  life 
of  her  home,  she  was  learning  to  live  and  move  and 
have  her  being. 

74 


"  The  Last  Days  of  Pump-eye" 

Therefore  it  came  to  her  as  a  heavy  blow  indeed 
when,  just  after  the  Christmas  holidays,  her  father  an- 
nounced to  her  on  the  first  morning  of  the  reopening 
of  school,  "You  best  make  good  use  of  your  time  from 
now  on,  Tillie,  fur  next  spring  I  'm  takin'  you  out 
of  school." 

Tillie 's  face  turned  white,  and  her  heart  thumped 
in  her  breast  so  that  she  could  not  speak. 

"You  're  comin'  twelve  year  old,"  her  father  con- 
tinued, "and  you  're  enough  educated,  now,  to  do 
you.  Me  and  mom  needs  you  at  home." 

It  never  occurred  to  Tillie  to  question  or  discuss  a 
decision  of  her  father's.  When  he  spoke  it  was  a 
finality  and  one  might  as  well  rebel  at  the  falling  of 
the  snow  or  rain.  Tillie 's  woe  was  utterly  hopeless. 

Her  dreary,  drooping  aspect  in  the  next  few  days 
was  noticed  by  Miss  Margaret. 

"Pop  's  takin'  me  out  of  school  next  spring,"  she 
heart-brokenly  said  when  questioned.  "And  when 
I  can't  see  you  every  day,  Miss  Margaret,  I  won't 
feel  for  nothin'  no  more.  And  I  thought  to  get  more 
educated  than  what  I  am  yet.  I  thought  to  go  to 
school  till  I  was  anyways  fourteen." 

So  keenly  did  Miss  Margaret  feel  the  outrage 
and  wrong  of  Tillie 's  arrested  education,  when  her 
father  could  well  afford  to  keep  her  in  school  until 
she  was  grown,  if  he  would ;  so  stirred  was  her  warm 
Southern  blood  at  the  thought  of  the  fate  to  which 
poor  Tillie  seemed  doomed — the  fate  of  a  household 
drudge  with  not  a  moment's  leisure  from  sunrise  to 
night  for  a  thought  above  the  grubbing  existence  of 

75 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

a  domestic  beast  of  burden  (thus  it  all  looked  to  this 
woman  from  Kentucky),  that  she  determined,  cost 
what  it  might,  to  go  herself  to  appeal  to  Mr.  Getz. 

"He  will  have  me  'chased  off  of  William  Perm,'  " 
she  ruefully  told  herself.  "And  the  loss  just  now  of 
my  munificent  salary  of  thirty-five  dollars  a  month 
would  be  inconvenient.  'The  Doc'  said  he  would 
'stand  by'  me.  But  that  might  be  more  inconvenient 
still ! ' '  she  thought,  with  a  little  shudder.  ' '  I  suppose 
this  is  an  impolitic  step  for  me  to  take.  But  policy 
'be  blowed,'  as  the  doctor  would  say!  What  are  we 
in  this  world  for  but  to  help  one  another?  I  must 
try  to  help  little  Tillie— bless  her!" 

So  the  following  Monday  afternoon  after  school, 
found  Miss  Margaret,  in  a  not  very  complacent  or 
confident  frame  of  mind,  walking  with  Tillie  and  her 
younger  brother  and  sister  out  over  the  snow-cov- 
ered road  to  the  Getz  farm  to  face  the  redoubtable 
head  of  the  family. 


76 


VIII 

MISS  MARGARET'S  ERRAND 

IT  was  half-past  four  o'clock  when  they  reached 
the  farm-house,  and  they  found  the  weary,  dreary 
mother  of  the  family  cleaning  fish  at  the  kitchen  sink, 
one  baby  pulling  at  her  skirts,  another  sprawling  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet. 

Miss  Margaret  inquired  whether  she  might  see  Mr. 
Getz. 

"If  you  kin?  Yes,  I  guess,"  Mrs.  Getz  dully 
responded.  "  Sammy,  you  go  to  the  barn  and  tell 
pop  Teacher  's  here  and  wants  to  speak  somepin  to 
him.  Mister  's  out  back, ' '  she  explained  to  Miss  Mar- 
garet, "ehoppin'  wood." 

Sammy  departed,  and  Miss  Margaret  sat  down  in 
the  chair  which  Tillie  brought  to  her.  Mrs.  Getz 
went  on  with  her  work  at  the  sink,  while  Tillie  set  to 
work  at  once  on  a  crock  of  potatoes  waiting  to  be 
pared. 

"You  are  getting  supper  very  early,  are  n't  you?'7 
Miss  Margaret  asked,  with  a  friendly  attempt  to  make 
conversation. 

"No,  we  're  some  late.  And  I  don't  get  it  ready 
yet,  I  just  start  it.  We  're  getting  strangers  fur  sup- 
per." 

"Are  you?" 

77 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

''Yes.    Some  of  Mister's  folks  from  East  Bethel." 

"And  are  they  strangers  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Getz  paused  in  her  scraping  of  the  fish  to  con- 
sider the  question. 

' '  If  they  're  strangers  to  us  ?  Och,  no.  We  knowed 
them  this  long  time  a 'ready.  Us  we  're  well  ac- 
quainted. But  to  be  sure  they  don't  live  with  us, 
so  we  say  strangers  is  comin'.  You  don't  talk  like 
us;  ain't?" 

"N— not  exactly." 

"I  do  think  now  (you  must  excuse  me  sayin'  so) 
but  you  do  talk  awful  funny,"  Mrs.  Getz  smiled 
feebly. 

"I  suppose  I  do,"  Miss  Margaret  sympathetically 
replied. 

Mr.  Getz  now  came  into  the  room,  and  Miss  Mar- 
garet rose  to  greet  him. 

"I  'm  much  obliged  to  meet  you,"  he  said  awk- 
wardly as  he  shook  hands  with  her. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel,  then  turned 
to  speak  to  Tillie. 

"Are  yous  home  long  a 'ready?"  he  inquired. 

' '  Not  so  very  long, ' '  Tillie  answered  with  an  appre- 
hensive glance  at  the  clock. 

"You  're  some  late,"  he  said,  with  a  threatening 
little  nod  as  he  drew  up  a  chair  in  front  of  the 
teacher. 

"It  's  my  fault,"  Miss  Margaret  hastened  to  say, 
4 'I  made  the  children  wait  to  bring  me  out  here." 

"Well,"  conceded  Mr.  Getz,  "then  we  '11  leave  it 
go  this  time." 

78 


Miss  Margaret's  Errand 

Miss  Margaret  now  bent  her  mind  to  the  difficult 
task  of  persuading  this  stubborn  Pennsylvania  Dutch- 
man to  accept  her  views  as  to  what  was  for  the  high- 
est and  best  good  of  his  daughter.  Eloquently  she 
pointed  out  to  him  that  Tillie  being  a  child  of  unu- 
sual ability,  it  would  be  much  better  for  her  to  have 
an  education  than  to  be  forced  to  spend  her  days  in 
farm-house  drudgery. 

But  her  point  of  view,  being  entirely  novel,  did  not 
at  all  appeal  to  him. 

"I  never  thought  to  leave  her  go  to  school  after 
she  was  twelve.  That  's  long  enough  fur  a  girl;  a 
female  don't  need  much  book-knowledge.  It  don't 
help  her  none  to  keep  house  fur  her  mister." 

"But  she  could  become  a  teacher  and  then  she 
could  earn  money,"  Miss  Margaret  argued,  knowing 
the  force  of  this  point  with  Mr.  Getz. 

"But  look  at  all  them  years  she  'd  have  to  spend 
learnin'  herself  to  be  intelligent  enough  fur  to  be  a 
teacher,  when  she  might  be  helpin'  me  and  mom." 

"But  she  could  help  you  by  paying  board  here 
when  she  becomes  the  New  Canaan  teacher." 

"That  's  so  too,"  granted  Mr.  Getz;  and  Margaret 
grew  faintly  hopeful. 

"But,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  heavy  weighing 
of  the  matter,  "it  would  take  too  long  to  get  her 
enough  educated  fur  to  be  a  teacher,  and  I  'm  one 
of  them,"  he  maintained,  "that  holds  a  child  is  born 
to  help  the  parent,  and  not  contrarywise — that  the 
parent  must  do  everything  fur  the  child  that  way." 

"If  you  love  your  children,  you  must  wish  for 

79 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

their  highest  good,"  she  suggested,  "and  not  tram- 
ple on  their  best  interests." 

"But  they  have  the  right  to  work  for  their  pa- 
rents, ' '  he  insisted.  ' '  You  need  n  't  plague  me  to  leave 
Tillie  stay  in  school,  Teacher.  I  ain't  leavin'  her!" 

"Do  you  think  you  have  a  right  to  bring  children 
into  the  world  only  to  crush  everything  in  them  that 
is  worth  while?"  Margaret  dared  to  say  to  him,  her 
face  flushed,  her  eyes  bright  with  the  intensity  of  her 
feelings. 

"That  's  all  blamed  foolishness!"  Jake  Getz  af- 
firmed. 

"Do  you  think  that  your  daughter,  when  she  is 
grown  and  realizes  all  that  she  has  lost,  will  'rise  up 
and  call  you  blessed '  ? "  she  persisted. 

"Do  I  think?  Well,  what  I  think  is  that  it  's  a 
good  bit  more  particular  that  till  she  's  growed  she  's 
been  learnt  to  work  and  serve  them  that  raised  her. 
And  what  I  think  is  that  a  person  ain't  fit  to  be  a 
teacher  of  the  young  that  sides  along  with  the  chil- 
dern  ag'in'  their  parents." 

Miss  Margaret  felt  that  it  was  time  she  took  her 
leave. 

"Look-ahere  oncet,  Teacher!"  Mr.  Getz  suddenly 
said,  fixing  on  her  a  suspicious  and  searching  look, 
"do  you  uphold  to  novel-readin'?" 

Miss  Margaret  hesitated  perceptibly.  She  must 
shield  Tillie  even  more  than  herself.  "What  a  ques- 
tion to  ask  of  the  teacher  at  William  Penn!"  she 
gravely  answered. 

"I  know  it  ain't  such  a  wery  polite  question,"  re- 

80 


Miss  Margaret's  Errand 

turned  Mr.  Getz,  half  apologetically.  "But  the  way 
you  side  along  with  childern  ag'in'  their  parents  sus- 
picions me  that  the  Doc  was  lyin'  when  he  sayed 
them  novel-books  was  hisn.  Now  was  they  hisn  or  was 
they  yourn?" 

Miss  Margaret  rose  with  a  look  and  air  of  injury. 
"Mr.  Getz,  no  one  ever  before  asked  me  such  ques- 
tions. Indeed,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  virtuous  prim- 
ness, "I  can't  answer  such  questions." 

"All  the  same,"  sullenly  asserted  Mr.  Getz,  "I 
would  n't  put  it  a-past  you  after  the  way  you  passed 
your  opinion  to  me  this  after ! ' ' 

"I  must  be  going,"  returned  Miss  Margaret  with 
dignity. 

Mrs.  Getz  came  forward  from  the  stove  with  a 
look  and  manner  of  apology  for  her  husband's  rude- 
ness to  the  visitor. 

"What  's  your  hurry?  Can't  you  stay  and  eat 
along?  We  're  not  anyways  tired  of  you." 

"Thank  you.  But  they  will  be  waiting  for  me  at 
the  hotel,"  said  Miss  Margaret  gently. 

Tillie,  a  bit  frightened,  also  hovered  near,  her  wist- 
ful little  face  pale.  Miss  Margaret  drew  her  to  her 
and  held  her  at  her  side,  as  she  looked  up  into  the  face 
of  Mr.  Getz. 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry,  Mr.  Getz,  that  my  visit 
has  proved  so  fruitless.  You  don't  realize  what  a 
mistake  you  are  making." 

"That  ain't  the  way  a  teacher  had  ought  to  talk 
before  a  scholar  to  its  parent!"  indignantly  retorted 
Mr.  Getz.  "And  I  'm  pretty  near  sure  it  was  all 

Si 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

the  time  you  where  lent  them  books  to  Tillie— cor- 
ruptin '  the  young !  I  can  tell  you  right  now,  I  ain  't 
wotin '  fur  you  at  next  election !  And  the  way  I  wote 
is  the  way  two  other  members  always  wotes  still— and 
so  you  '11  lose  your  job  at  William  Penn!  That  's 
what  you  get  fur  tryin'  to  interfere  between  a  parent 
and  a  scholar!  I  hope  it  '11  learn  you!" 

"And  when  is  the  next  election?"  imperturbably 
asked  Miss  Margaret. 

"Next  month  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  February. 
Then  you  '11  see  oncet!" 

"According  to  the  terms  of  my  agreement  with  the 
Board  I  hold  my  position  until  the  first  of  April  un- 
less the  Board  can  show  reasons  why  it  should  be 
taken  from  me.  What  reasons  can  you  show  ? ' ' 

"That  you  side  along  with  the — " 

"That  I  try  to  persuade  you  not  to  take  your  child 
out  of  school  when  you  can  well  afford  to  keep  her 
there.  That  's  what  you  have  to  tell  the  Board." 

Mr.  Getz  stared  at  her,  rather  baffled.  The  children 
also  stared  in  wide-eyed  curiosity,  realizing  with  won- 
der that  Teacher  was  "talkin'  up  to  pop !"  It  was  a 
novel  and  interesting  spectacle. 

"Well,  anyways,"  continued  Mr.  Getz,  rallying, 
"I  '11  bring  it  up  in  Board  meeting  that  you  mebbe 
leave  the  scholars  borry  the  loan  of  novels  off  of 
you." 

"But  you  can't  prove  it.  I  shall  hold  the  Board 
to  their  contract.  They  can't  break  it." 

Miss  Margaret  was  taking  very  high  ground,  of 
which,  in  fact,  she  was  not  at  all  sure. 

82 


Miss  Margaret's  Errand 

Mr.  Getz  gazed  at  her  with  mingled  anger  and 
fascination.  Here  was  certainly  a  new  species  of 
woman !  Never  before  had  any  teacher  at  William 
Penn  failed  to  cringe  to  his  authority  as  a  director. 

"This  much  I  kin  say,"  he  finally  declared. 
"Mebbe  you  kin  hold  us  to  that  there  contract,  but 
you  won't,  anyways,  be  elected  to  come  back  here 
next  term!  That  's  sure!  You  '11  have  to  look  out 
fur  another  place  till  September  a 'ready.  And  we 
won 't  give  you  no  recommend,  neither,  to  get  yourself 
another  school  with!" 

Just  here  it  was  that  Miss  Margaret  had  her  tri- 
umph, which  she  was  quite  human  enough  to  thor- 
oughly enjoy. 

''You  won't  have  a  chance  to  reelect  me,  for  I  am 
going  to  resign  at  the  end  of  the  term.  I  am  going  to 
be  married  the  week  after  school  closes." 

Never  had  Mr.  Getz  felt  himself  so  foiled.  Never 
before  had  any  one  subject  in  any  degree  to  his  au- 
thority so  neatly  eluded  a  reckoning  at  his  hands.  A 
tingling  sensation  ran  along  his  arm  and  he  had  to 
restrain  his  impulse  to  lift  it,  grasp  this  slender 
creature  standing  so  fearlessly  before  him,  and  thor- 
oughly shake  her. 

"Who  's  the  party?"  asked  Mrs.  Getz,  curiously. 
"It  never  got  put  out  that  you  was  promised.  I 
ain  't  heard  you  had  any  steady  comp  'ny.  To  be  sure, 
some  says  the  Doc  likes  you  pretty  good.  Is  it  now, 
mebbe,  the  Doc?  But  no,"  she  shook  her  head; 
"Mister's  sister  Em  at  the  hotel  would  have  tole  me. 
Is  it  some  one  where  lives  around  here?" 

83 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

''I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  Miss  Margaret  gra- 
ciously answered,  realizing  that  her  reply  would 
greatly  increase  Mr.  Getz's  sense  of  defeat.  "It  is 
Mr.  Lansing,  a  nephew  of  the  State  Superintendent 
of  schools  and  a  professor  at  the  Millersville  Normal 
School." 

"Well,  now  just  look!"  Mrs.  Getz  exclaimed  won- 
deringly.  "Such  a  tony  party!  The  State  Superin- 
tendent's nephew!  That  's  even  a  more  way-tip  per- 
son than  what  the  county  superintendent  is!  Ain't! 
Well,  who  'd  'a'  thought!" 

"Miss  Margaret!"  Tillie  breathed,  gazing  up  at 
her,  her  eyes  wide  and  strained  with  distress,  "if 
you  go  away  and  get  married,  won't  I  never  see  you 
no  more?" 

"But,  dear,  I  shall  live  so  near — at  the  Normal 
School  only  a  few  miles  away.  You  can  come  to  see 
me  of  ten." 

"But  pop  won't  leave  me,  Miss  Margaret — it  costs 
too  expensive  to  go  wisiting,  and  I  got  to  help  with 
the  work,  still.  0  Miss  Margaret!"  Tillie  sobbed, 
as  Margaret  sat  down  and  held  the  clinging  child 
to  her,  "I  '11  never  see  you  no  more  after  you  go 
away!" 

"Tillie,  dear!"  Margaret  tried  to  soothe  her. 
"I  '11  come  to  see  you,  then,  if  you  can't  come  to  see 
me.  Listen,  Tillie,— I  've  just  thought  of  something." 

Suddenly  she  put  the  little  girl  from  her  and  stood 
up. 

"Let  me  take  Tillie  to  live  with  me  next  fall  at  the 
Normal  School.  Won't  you  do  that,  Mr.  Getz?"  she 

84 


Miss  Margaret's  Errand 

urged  him.  "She  could  go  to  the  preparatory  school, 
and  if  we  stay  at  Millersville,  Dr.  Lansing  and  I 
would  try  to  have  her  go  through  the  Normal  School 
and  graduate.  Will  you  consent  to  it,  Mr.  Getz?" 

"And  who  'd  be  payin'  fur  all  this  here?"  Mr.  Getz 
ironically  inquired. 

' '  Tillie  could  earn  her  own  way  as  my  little  maid — 
helping  me  keep  my  few  rooms  in  the  Normal 
School  building  and  doing  my  mending  and  darning 
for  me.  And  you  know  after  she  was  graduated  she 
could  earn  her  living  as  a  teacher." 

Margaret  saw  the  look  of  feverish  eagerness  with 
which  Tillie  heard  this  proposal  and  awaited  the  out- 
come. 

Before  her  husband  could  answer,  Mrs.  Getz  offered 
a  weak  protest. 

"I  hear  the  girls  hired  in  town  have  to  set  away 
back  in  the  kitchen  and  never  dare  set  front — always 
away  back,  still.  Tillie  would  n't  like  that.  Nobody 
would." 

"But  I  shall  live  in  a  small  suite  of  rooms  at  the 
school — a  library,  a  bedroom,  a  bath-room,  and  a 
small  room  next  to  mine  that  can  be  Tillie 's  bedroom. 
"We  shad  take  our  meals  in  the  school  dining-room." 

"Well,  that  mebbe  she  would  n't  mind.  But  'way 
back  she  would  n't  be  satisfied  to  set.  That  's  why 
the  country  girls  don't  like  to  hire  in  town,  because 
they  dassent  set  front  with  the  missus.  Here  last 
market-day  Sophy  Haberbush  she  conceited  she  'd 
like  oncet  to  hire  out  in  town,  and  she  ast  me  would 
I  go  with  her  after  market  to  see  a  lady  that  adwer- 

87 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

tised  in  the  noospaper  fur  a  girl,  and  I  sayed  no,  I 
would  n't  mind.  So  I  went  along.  But  Sophy  she 
would  n't  take  the  place  fur  all.  She  ast  the  lady 
could  she  have  her  country  company,  Sundays — h« 
was  her  company  fur  four  years  now  and  she 
would  n't  like  to  give  him  up  neither.  She  tole  the 
lady  her  company  goes,  still,  as  early  as  eleven.  But 
the  lady  sayed  her  house  must  be  darkened  and  locked 
at  half-past  ten  a 'ready.  She  ast  me  was  I  Sophy's 
mother  and  I  sayed  no,  I  'm  nothin'  to  her  but  a 
neighbor  woman.  And  she  tole  Sophy,  when  they  eat, 
still,  Sophy  she  could  n't  eat  along.  I  guess  she 
thought  Sophy  Haberbush  was  n't  good  enough.  But 
she  's  as  good  as  any  person.  Her  mother's  name 
is  Smith  before  she  was  married,  and  them  Smiths 
was  well  fixed.  She  sayed  Sophy  'd  have  to  go  in 
and  out  the  back  way  and  never  out  the  front.  Why, 
they  say  some  of  the  town  people  's  that  proud,  if 
the  front  door-bell  rings  and  the  missus  is  standin' 
right  there  by  it,  she  won't  open  that  there  front 
door  but  wants  her  hired  girl  to  come  clear  from  the 
kitchen  to  open  it.  Yes,  you  might  n't  b'lee  me,  but 
I  heerd  that  a 'ready.  And  Mary  Hertzog  she  tole  me 
when  she  hired  out  there  fur  a  while  one  winter  in 
town,  why,  one  day  she  went  to  the  missus  and  she 
says,  '  There  's  two  ladies  in  the  parlor  and  I  tole  'em 
you  was  helpin'  in  the  kitchen,'  and  the  missus  she 
ast  her,  'What  fur  did  you  tell  'em  that?  Why, 
I  *m  that  ashamed  I  don't  know  how  to  walk  in  the 
parlor!'  And  Mary  she  ast  the  colored  gentleman 
that  worked  there,  what,  now,  did  the  missus  mean? 

88 


Miss  Margaret's  Errand 

— and  he  sayed,  'Well,  Mary,  you  've  a  heap  to  learn 
about  the  laws  of  society.  Don't  you  know  you  must 
always  leave  on  the  ladies  ain't  doin'  nothin'?' 
Mary  sayed  that  colored  gentleman  was  so  wonderful 
intelligent  that  way.  He  'd  been  a  restaurant  waiter 
there  fur  a  while  and  so  was  throwed  in  with  the 
best  people,  and  he  was,  now,  that  tony  and  high- 
minded  !  Och,  I  would  n  't  hire  in  town !  To  be  sure, 
Mister  can  do  what  he  wants.  Well,"  she  added, 
"it  's  a  quarter  till  five— I  guess  I'll  put  the  pepper- 
mint on  a  while.  Mister's  folks  '11  be  here  till  five." 

She  moved  away  to  the  stove,  and  Margaret  re- 
sumed her  assault  upon  the  stubborn  ignorance  of  the 
father. 

"  Think,  Mr.  Getz,  what  a  difference  all  this  would 
make  in  Tillie's  life,"  she  urged. 

"And  you  'd  be  learnin'  her  all  them  years  to  up 
and  sass  her  pop  when  she  was  growed  and  earnin' 
her  own  livin'!"  he  objected. 

"I  certainly  would  not." 

"And  all  them  years  till  she  graduated  she  'd  be 
no  use  to  us  where  owns  her,"  he  said,  as  though  his 
child  were  an  item  of  live  stock  on  the  farm. 

"She  could  come  home  to  you  in  the  summer  va- 
cations," Margaret  suggested. 

"Yes,  and  she  'd  come  that  spoilt  we  could  n't  get 
no  work  out  of  her.  No,  if  I  hire  her  out  winters, 
it  '11  be  where  I  kin  draw  her  wages  myself —where  's 
my  right  as  her  parent.  What  does  a  body  have 
childern  fur?  To  get  no  use  out  of  'em?  It  ain't 
no  good  you  're  plaguin'  me.  I  ain't  leavin'  her  go. 

6  80 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Tillie!"  he  commanded  the  child  with  a  twirl  of  his 
thumb  and  a  motion  of  his  head ;  ' '  go  set  the  supper- 
table!" 

Margaret  laid  her  arm  about  Tillie  'a  shoulder. 
"Well,  dear,"  she  said  sorrowfully,  "we  must  give  it 
all  up,  I  suppose.  But  don't  lose  heart,  Tillie.  I 
shall  not  go  out  of  your  life.  At  least  we  can  write 
to  each  other.  Now,"  she  concluded,  bending  and 
kissing  her, ' '  I  must  go,  but  you  and  I  shall  have  some 
talks  before  you  stop  school,  and  before  I  go  away 
from  New  Canaan." 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  Tillie 's  in  a  long  kiss,  while 
the  child  clung  to  her  in  passionate  devotion.  Mr.  Getz 
looked  on  with  dull  bewilderment.  He  knew,  in  a 
vague  way,  that  every  word  the  teacher  spoke  to  the 
child,  no  less  than  those  useless  caresses,  was  "sid- 
ing along  with  the  scholar  ag'in'  the  parent,"  and 
yet  he  could  not  definitely  have  stated  just  how.  He 
was  quite  sure  that  she  would  not  dare  so  to  defy  him 
did  she  not  know  that  she  had  the  whip-handle  in 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  want  her  "job"  next  year, 
and  that  the  Board  could  not,  except  for  definite 
offenses,  break  their  contract  with  her.  It  was  only 
in  view  of  these  considerations  that  she  played  her 
game  of  "plaguing"  him  by  championing  Tillie. 
Jacob  Getz  was  incapable  of  recognizing  in  the 
teacher's  attitude  toward  his  child  an  unselfish  in- 
terest and  love. 

So,  in  dogged,  sullen  silence,  he  saw  this  extraor- 
dinary young  woman  take  her  leave  and  pass  out  of 
his  house. 

00 


IX 

"l    'LL  DO   MY  DARN   BEST,   TEACHER!" 

rsoon  ''got  put  out"  in  New  Canaan  that  Miss 
Margaret  was  ''promised,"  and  the  doctor  was. 
surprised  to  find  how  much  the  news  depressed  him. 

"I  did  n't  know,  now,  how  much  I  was  stuck  on 
her !  To  think  I  can 't  have  her  even  if  I  do  want  her ' ' 
(up  to  this  time  he  had  had  moments  now  and  then 
of  not  feeling  absolutely  sure  of  his  inclination), 
"and  that  she  's  promised  to  one  of  them  tony 
Millersville  Normal  professors !  If  it  don 't  beat  all ! 
Well,"  he  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh  as,  lounging  back  in 
his  buggy,  he  let  his  horse  jog  at  his  own  gait  along 
the  muddy  country  road,  "I  jus'  don't  feel  fur 
nothin'  to-day.  She  was  now  certainly  a  sweet  lady," 
he  thought  pensively,  as  though  alluding  to  one  who 
had  died.  "If  there  's  one  sek  I  do  now  like,  it  's  the 
female — and  she  was  certainly  a  nice  party!" 

In  the  course  of  her  career  at  William  Penn, 
Miss  Margaret  had  developed  such  a  genuine  fondness 
for  the  shaggy,  good-natured,  generous,  and  unscru- 
pulous little  doctor,  that  before  she  abandoned  her 
post  at  the  end  of  the  term,  and  shook  the  dust  of 
New  Canaan  from  her  feet,  she  took  him  into  her  con- 
fidence and  begged  him  to  take  care  of  Tillie. 

91 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"She  is  an  uncommon  child,  doctor,  and  she  must — 
I  am  determined  that  she  must— be  rescued  from  the 
life  to  which  that  father  of  hers  would  condemn  her. 
You  must  help  me  to  bring  it  about. ' ' 

"Nothin'  I  like  better,  Teacher,  than  gettin'  ahead 
of  Jake  Getz,"  the  doctor  readily  agreed.  "Or 
obligin'  you.  To  tell  you  the  truth, — and  it  don't 
do  no  harm  to  say  it  now, — if  you  had  n't  been  prom- 
ised, I  was  a-goin'  to  ast  you  myself!  You  took 
notice  I  gave  you  an  inwitation  there  last  week  to 
go  buggy-ridin'  with  me.  That  was  leadin'  up  to 
it.  After  that  Sunday  night  you  left  me  set  up  with 
you,  I  never  conceited  you  was  promised  a 'ready  to 
somebody  else— and  you  even  left  me  set  with  my 
feet  on  your  chair-rounds ! ' '  The  doctor 's  tone  was  a 
bit  injured. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  inquired  Miss  Margaret, 
wonderingly,  "that  the  permission  to  sit  with  one's 
feet  on  the  rounds  of  a  lady's  chair  is  taken  in  New 
Canaan  as  an  indication  of  her  favor— and  even  of  her 
inclination  to  matrimony?" 

"It  's  looked  to  as  meanin'  gettin'  down  to  biz!" 
the  doctor  affirmed. 

"Then,"  meekly,  "I  humbly  apologize." 

"That  's  all  right,"  generously  granted  the  doctor, 
' '  if  you  did  n  't  know  no  better.  But  to  be  sure,  I  'm 
some  disappointed." 

"I  'm  sorry  for  that!" 

"Would  you  of  mebbe  said  yes,  if  you  had  n't  of 
been  promised  a 'ready  to  one  of  them  tony  Millers- 
yille  Normal  professors,"  the  doctor  inquired  curi- 

Q2 


"I'll  do  my  darn  best!" 

ously — "me  bein'  a  professional  gentleman  that 
way  ? ' ' 

"I  'm  sure,"  replied  this  daughter  of  Eve,  who 
wished  to  use  the  doctor  in  her  plans  for  Tillie,  "I 
should  have  been  highly  honored." 

The  rueful,  injured  look  on  the  doctor's  face 
cleared  to  flattered  complacency.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"I  'd  like  wery  well  to  do  what  you  ast  off  of  me 
fur  little  Tillie  Getz.  But,  Teacher,  what  can  a  body 
do  against  a  feller  like  Jake  Getz?  A  body  can't 
come  between  a  man  and  his  own  offspring." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  Margaret,  sadly.  "But  just 
keep  a  little  watch  over  Tillie  and  help  her  when- 
ever you  see  that  you  can.  Won't  you?  Promise 
me  that  you  will.  You  have  several  times  helped  her 
out  of  trouble  this  winter.  There  may  be  other  simi- 
lar opportunities.  Between  us,  doctor,  we  may  be 
able  to  make  something  of  Tillie." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "I  '11  do  my  darn  best, 
Teacher,  but  Jake  Getz  he  's  that  wonderful  set.  A 
little  girl  like  Tillie  could  n't  never  make  no  head- 
way with  Jake  Getz  standin'  in  her  road.  But  any- 
Avays,  Teacher,  I  pass  you  my  promise  I  '11  do  what 
I  can." 

Miss  Margaret's  parting  advice  and  promises  to 
Tillie  so  fired  the  girl's  ambition  and  determination 
that  some  of  the  sting  and  anguish  of  parting  from  her 
who  stood  to  the  child  for  all  the  mother-love  that 
her  life  had  missed,  was  taken  away  in  the  burning 
purpose  with  which  she  found  herself  imbued,  to  bend 
her  every  thought  and  act  in  all  the  years  to  come 

93 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

to  the  reaching  of  that  glorious  goal  which  her  idol- 
ized teacher  set  before  her. 

"As  soon  as  you  are  old  enough,"  Miss  Margaret 
admonished  her,  "you  must  assert  yourself.  Take 
your  rights — your  right  to  an  education,  to  some 
girlish  pleasures,  to  a  little  liberty.  No  matter  what 
you  have  to  suffer  in  the  struggle,  fight  it  out,  for 
you  will  suffer  more  in  the  end  if  you  let  yourself 
be  defrauded  of  everything  which  makes  it  worth 
while  to  have  been  born.  Don't  let  yourself  be 
sacrificed  for  those  who  not  only  will  never  appre- 
ciate it,  but  who  will  never  be  worth  it.  I  think  I  dc 
you  no  harm  by  telling  you  that  you  are  worth  all 
the  rest  of  your  family  put  together.  The  self- 
sacrifice  which  pampers  the  selfishness  of  others  is 
not  creditable.  It  is  weak.  It  is  unworthy.  Re- 
member what  I  say  to  you — make  a  fight  for  your 
rights,  just  as  soon  as  you  are  old  enough— your  right 
to  be  a  woman  instead  of  a  chattel  and  a  drudge. 
And  meantime,  make  up  for  your  rebellion  by  being 
as  obedient  and  helpful  and  affectionate  to  your 
parents  as  you  can  be,  without  destroying  yourself." 

Such  sentiments  and  ideas  were  almost  a  foreign 
language  to  Tillie,  and  yet,  intuitively,  she  under- 
stood the  import  of  them.  In  her  loneliness,  after 
Miss  Margaret's  departure,  she  treasured  and  brooded 
over  them  day  and  night ;  and  very  much  as  the  primi- 
tive Christian  courted  martyrdom,  her  mind  dwelt, 
with  ever-growing  resolution,  upon  the  thought  of 
the  heroic  courage  with  which,  in  the  years  to  come, 
she  would  surely  obey  them. 

94 


"I'll  do  my  darn  best!" 

Miss  Margaret  had  promised  Tillie  that  she  would 
write  to  her,  and  the  child,  overlooking  the  serious 
difficulties  in  the  way,  had  eagerly  promised  in  return 
to  answer  her  letters. 

Once  a  week  Mr.  Getz  called  for  mail  at  the  village 
store,  and  Miss  Margaret's  first  letter  was  laboriously 
read  by  him  on  his  way  out  to  the  farm. 

He  found  it,  on  the  whole,  uninteresting,  but  he 
vaguely  gathered  from  one  or  two  sentences  that  the 
teacher,  even  at  the  distance  of  five  miles,  was  still 
trying  to  "plague"  him  by  "siding  along  with  his 
child  ag'in'  her  parent." 

"See  here  oncet,"  he  said  to  Tillie,  striding  to  the 
kitchen  stove  on  his  return  home,  the  letter  in 
his  hand:  "this  here  goes  after  them  novel-books, 
in  the  fire!  I  ain't  leavin'  that  there  woman  spoil 
you  with  no  such  letters  like  this  here.  Now  you 
know ! ' ' 

The  gleam  of  actual  wickedness  in  Tillie 's  usually 
soft  eyes,  as  she  saw  that  longed-for  letter  tossed  into 
the  flames,  would  have  startled  her  father  had  he 
seen  it.  The  girl  trembled  from  head  to  foot  and 
turned  a  deathly  white. 

"I  hate  you,  hate  you,  hate  you!"  her  hot  heart 
was  saying  as  she  literally  glared  at  her  tormentor. 
"I  '11  never  forget  this— never,  never;  I  '11  make  you 
suffer  for  it— I  will,  I  will !" 

But  her  white  lips  were  dumb,  and  her  impotent 
passion,  having  no  other  outlet,  could  only  tear  and 
bruise  her  own  heart  as  all  the  long  morning  she 
worked  in  a  blind  fury  at  her  household  tasks. 

95 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

But  after  dinner  she  did  an  unheard-of  thing. 
Without  asking  permission,  or  giving  any  explana- 
tion to  either  her  father  or  her  stepmother,  she  de- 
liberately abandoned  her  usual  Saturday  afternoon 
work  of  cleaning  up  (she  said  to  herself  that  she  did 
not  care  if  the  house  rotted),  and  dressing  herself, 
she  walked  straight  through  the  kitchen  before  her 
stepmother's  very  eyes,  and  out  of  the  house. 

Her  father  was  out  in  the  fields  when  she  undertook 
this  high-handed  step ;  and  her  mother  was  so  dumb 
with  amazement  at  such  unusual  behavior  that  she 
offered  but  a  weak  protest. 

"What  '11  pop  say  to  your  doin'  somepin  like  this 
here!"  she  called  querulously  after  Tillie  as  she  fol- 
lowed her  across  the  kitchen  to  the  door.  "He  '11 
whip  you,  Tillie;  and  here  's  all  the  sweep  in'  to  be 
did—" 

There  was  a  strange  gleam  in  Tillie 's  eyes  before 
which  the  woman  shrank  and  held  her  peace.  The 
girl  swept  past  her,  almost  walked  over  several  of 
the  children  sprawling  on  the  porch,  and  went  out  of 
the  gate  and  up  the  road  toward  the  village. 

"What  's  the  matter  of  her  anyways?"  the  woman 
wonderingly  said  to  herself  as  she  went  back  to  her 
work.  "Is  it  that  she  's  so  spited  about  that  letter 
pop  burnt  up  ?  But  what  's  a  letter  to  get  spited 
about?  There  was  enough  worse  things  'n  that  that 
she  took  off  her  pop  without  actin'  like  this.  Och, 
but  he  '11  whip  her  if  he  gets  in  here  before  she  comes 
back.  Where  's  she  goin'  to,  I  wonder!  Well,  I 
never  did!  I  would  not  be  her  if  her  pop  finds  how 

96 


"I'll  do  my  darn  best!" 

she  went  off  and  let  her  work!  I  wonder  shall  I 
mebbe  tell  him  on  her  or  not,  if  he  don't  get  in  till 
she  's  home  a 'ready?" 

She  meditated  upon  this  problem  of  domestic  econ- 
omy as  she  mechanically  did  her  chores,  her  reflec- 
tions on  Tillie  taking  an  unfriendly  color  as  she  felt 
the  weight  of  her  stepdaughter's  abandoned  tasks 
added  to  the  already  heavy  burden  of  her  own. 

It  was  to  see  the  doctor  that  Tillie  had  set  out  for 
the  village  hotel.  He  was  the  only  person  in  all  her 
little  world  to  whom  she  felt  she  could  turn  for  help 
in  her  suffering.  Her  "Aunty  Em,"  the  landlady  at 
the  hotel,  was,  she  knew,  very  fond  of  her;  but  Tillie 
never  thought  of  appealing  to  her  in  her  trouble. 

"I  never  thought  when  I  promised  Miss  Margaret 
I  'd  write  to  her  still  where  I  'd  get  the  stamps  from, 
and  the  paper  and  envelops,"  Tillie  explained  to  the 
doctor  as  they  sat  in  confidential  consultation  in  the 
hotel  parlor,  the  child's  white  face  of  distress  a  chal- 
lenge to  his  faithful  remembrance  of  his  promise  to 
the  teacher.  "And  now  I  got  to  find  some  way  to  let 
her  know  I  did  n't  see  her  letter  to  me.  Doc,  will  you 
write  and  tell  her  for  me?"  she  pleaded. 

"My  hand-writin'  ain't  just  so  plain  that  way, 
Tillie.  But  I  '11  give  you  all  the  paper  and  envelops 
and  stamps  you  want  to  write  on  yourself  to  her." 

' '  Oh,  Doe ! ' '  Tillie  gazed  at  him  in  fervent  grati- 
tude. "But  mebbe  I  had  n't  ought  to  take  'em  whea  I 
can't  pay  you." 

"That  's  all  right.  If  it  '11  make  you  feel  some 
easier,  you  kin  pay  me  when  you  're  growed  up  and 

99 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

teachin'.  Your  Miss  Margaret  she  's  bound  to  make 
a  teacher  out  of  you— or  anyways  a  educated  per- 
son. And  then  you  kin  pay  me  when  you  're  got  your 
nice  education  to  make  your  livin'  with." 

"That  's  what  we  '11  do  then!"  Tillie  joyfully  ac- 
cepted this  proposal.  "I  '11  keep  account  and  pay 
you  back  every  cent,  Doc,  when  I  'm  earnin'  my  own 
livin '. ' ' 

"All  right.  That  's  settled  then.  Now,  fur  your 
gettin'  your  letters,  still,  from  Teacher.  How  are  we 
goin'  to  work  that  there?  I  '11  tell  you,  Tillie!"  he 
slapped  the  table  as  an  idea  came  to  him.  "You  write 
her  off  a  letter  and  tell  her  she  must  write  her  letters 
to  you  in  a  envelop  directed  to  me.  And  I  '11  see  as 
you  get  'em  all  right,  you  bet!  Ain't?" 

"Oh,  Doc!"  Tillie  was  affectionately  grateful. 
"You  are  so  kind  to  me!  What  would  I  do  without 
you?"  Tears  choked  her  voice,  filled  her  eyes,  and 
rolled  down  her  face. 

"Och,  that  's  all  right,"  he  patted  her  shoulder. 
"Ain't  no  better  fun  goin'  fur  me  than  gettin'  ahead 
of  that  mean  old  Jake  Getz ! ' ' 

Tillie  drew  back  a  bit  shocked ;  but  she  did  not  pro- 
test. 

Carrying  in  her  bosom  a  stamped  envelop,  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  a  pencil,  the  child  walked  home  in  a 
very  different  frame  of  mind  from  that  in  which  she 
had  started  out.  She  shuddered  as  she  remembered 
how  wickedly  rebellious  had  been  her  mood  that 
morning.  Never  before  had  such  hot  and  dreadful 
feelings  and  thoughts  burned  in  her  heart  and  brain. 
100 


"I'll  do  my  darn  best!" 

In  an  undefined  way,  the  growing  girl  realized  that 
such  a  state  of  mind  and  heart  was  unworthy  her 
sacred  friendship  with  Miss  Margaret. 

"I  want  to  be  like  her — and  she  was  never  ugly  in 
her  feelings  like  what  I  was  all  morning!" 

When  she  reached  home,  she  so  effectually  made 
up  for  lost  time  in  the  vigor  with  which  she  attacked 
the  Saturday  cleaning  that  Mrs.  Getz,  with  unusual 
forbearance,  decided  not  to  tell  her  father  of  her  in- 
subordination. 

Tillie  wrote  her  first  letter  to  Miss  Margaret,  by 
stealth,  at  midnight. 


101 


X 

ADAM  SCHUNK'S  FUNERAL 

A  CRUCIAL  struggle  with  her  father,  to  whicfc 
both  Tillie  and  Miss  Margaret  had  fearfully 
looked  forward,  came  about  much  sooner  than  Tillie 
had  anticipated.  The  occasion  of  it,  too,  was  not  at 
all  what  she  had  expected  and  even  planned  it  to  be. 

It  was  her  conversion,  just  a  year  after  she  had 
been  taken  out  of  school,  to  the  ascetic  faith  of  the 
New  Mennonites  that  precipitated  the  crisis,  this  con- 
version being  wrought  by  a  sermon  which  she  heard 
at  the  funeral  of  a  neighboring  farmer. 

A  funeral  among  the  farmers  of  Lancaster  County 
is  a  festive  occasion,  the  most  popular  form  of  dissi- 
pation known,  bringing  the  whole  population  forth  as 
in  some  regions  they  turn  out  to  a  circus. 

Adam  Schunk's  death,  having  been  caused  by  his 
own  hand  in  a  fit  of  despair  over  the  loss  of  some 
money  he  had  unsuccessfully  invested,  was  so  sudden 
and  shocking  that  the  effect  produced  on  Canaan 
Township  was  profound,  not  to  say  awful. 

As  for  Tillie,  it  was  the  first  event  of  the  kind  that 
had  ever  come  within  her  experience,  and  the  religious 
sentiments  in  which  she  had  been  reared  aroused  in 
her,  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  community, 

102 


Adam  Schunk's  funeral 

a  superstitious  fear  before  this  sudden  and  solemn 
calling  to  judgment  of  one  whom  they  had  all  known 
so  familiarly,  and  who  had  so  wickedly  taken  his 
own  life. 

During  the  funeral  at  the  farm-house,  she  sat  in  the 
crowded  parlor  where  the  coffin  stood,  and  though 
surrounded  by  people,  she  felt  strangely  alone  with 
this  weird  mystery  of  Death  which  for  the  first  time 
she  was  realizing. 

Her  mother  was  in  the  kitchen  with  the  other 
farmers'  wives  of  the  neighborhood  who  were  help- 
ing to  prepare  the  immense  quantity  of  food  neces- 
sary to  feed  the  large  crowd  that  always  attended 
a  funeral,  every  one  of  whom,  by  the  etiquette  of  the 
county,  remained  to  supper  after  the  services. 

Her  father,  being  among  the  hired  hostlers  of  the 
occasion,  was  outside  in  the  barn.  Mr.  Getz  was 
head  hostler  at  every  funeral  of  the  district,  being 
detailed  to  assist  and  superintend  the  work  of  the 
other  half  dozen  men  employed  to  take  charge  of 
the  "teams"  that  belonged  to  the  funeral  guests,  who 
came  in  families,  companies,  and  crowds.  That  so 
well-to-do  a  farmer  as  Jake  Getz,  one  who  owned  his 
farm  "clear,"  should  make  a  practice  of  hiring  out 
as  a  funeral  hostler,  with  the  humbler  farmers  who 
only  rented  the  land  they  tilled,  was  one  of  the  facta 
which  gave  him  his  reputation  for  being  "keen  on 
the  penny." 

Adam  Schunk,  deceased,  had  been  an  "Evangel- 
ical," but  his  wife  being  a  New  Mennonite,  a  sect 
largely  prevailing  in  southeastern  Pennsylvania,  the 

103 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

funeral  services  were  conducted  by  two  ministers,  one 
of  them  a  New  Mennonite  and  the  other  an  Evangeli- 
cal. It  was  the  sermon  of  the  New  Mennonite  that 
led  to  Tillie 's  conversion. 

The  New  Mennonites  being  the  most  puritanic  and 
exclusive  of  all  sects,  earnestly  regarding  themselves 
as  the  custodians  of  the  only  absolutely  true  light, 
their  ministers  insist  on  certain  prerogatives  as  the 
condition  of  giving  their  services  at  a  funeral.  A  New 
Mennonite  preacher  will  not  consent  to  preach  after  a 
"World's  preacher" — he  must  have  first  voice.  It 
was  therefore  the  somber  doctrine  of  fear  preached 
by  the  Reverend  Brother  Abram  Underwocht  which 
did  its  work  upon  Tillie 's  conscience  so  completely 
that  the  gentler  Gospel  set  forth  afterward  by  the 
Evangelical  brother  was  scarcely  heeded. 

The  Keverend  Brother  Abram  Underwocht,  in  the 
"plain"  garb  of  the  Mennonite  sect,  took  his  place  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairway  opening  out  of  the  sitting- 
room,  and  gave  expression  to  his  own  profound  sense 
of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  by  a  question  intro- 
ductory to  his  sermon,  and  asked  in  a  tone  of  heavy 
import:  "If  this  ain't  a  blow,  what  is  it?" 

Handkerchiefs  were  promptly  produced  and  agi- 
tated faces  hidden  therein. 

Why  this  was  a  "blow"  of  more  than  usual  force, 
Brother  Underwocht  proceeded  to  explain  in  a  blood- 
curdling talk  of  more  than  an  hour's  length,  in  which 
he  set  forth  the  New  Mennonite  doctrine  that  none 
outside  of  the  only  true  faith  of  Christ,  as  held 
end  taught  by  the  New  Mennonites,  could  be  saved 
104 


Adam  Schunk's  funeral 

from  the  fire  which  cannot  be  quenched.  With  the 
heroism  born  of  deep  conviction,  he  stoically  disre- 
garded the  feelings  of  the  bereaved  family,  and  af- 
firmed that  the  deceased  having  belonged  to  one  of 
"the  World's  churches,"  no  hope  could  be  enter- 
tained for  him,  nor  could  his  grieving  widow  look 
forward  to  meeting  him  again  in  the  heavenly  home 
to  which  she,  a  saved  New  Mennonite,  was  destined. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  fact  that  at  least  one 
third  of  those  present  were  non-Mennonites,  Brother 
Underwocht  followed  the  usual  course  of  the  preach- 
ers of  his  sect  on  such  an  occasion,  and  made  of  his 
funeral  sermon  an  exposition  of  the  whole  field  of 
New  Mennonite  faith  and  practice.  Beginning  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  he  graphically  described  that  re- 
nowned locality  as  a  type  of  the  Paradise  from  which 
Adam  Schunk  and  others  who  did  not  "give  them- 
selves up"  were  excluded. 

"It  must  have  been  a  magnificent  scenery  to  Al- 
mighty Gawd,"  he  said,  referring  to  the  beauties  of 
man's  first  Paradise.  "But  how  soon  to  be  snatched 
by  sin  from  man's  mortal  vision,  when  Eve  started 
that  conversation  with  the  enemy  of  her  soul!  Be- 
loved, that  was  an  unfortunate  circumstance !  And 
you  that  are  still  out  of  Christ  and  in  the  world,  have 
need  to  pray  fur  Gawd's  help,  his  aid,  and  his  as- 
sistance, to  enable  you  to  overcome  the  enemy  who 
that  day  was  turned  loose  upon  the  world — that 
Gawd  may  see  fit  to  have  you  when  you  're  done  here 
a 'ready.  Heed  the  solemn  warning  of  this  poor  soul 
now  laying  before  you  cold  in  death! 
105 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"  'Know  that  you  're  a  transient  creature, 
Soon  to  fade  and  pass  away.' 

Even  Lazarus,  where  [who]  was  raised  to  life,  was 
not  raised  fur  never  to  die  no  more!" 

The  only  comfort  he  could  offer  to  this  stricken 
household  was  that  he  knew  how  bad  they  felt,  having 
had  a  brother  who  had  died  with  equal  suddenness 
and  also  without  hope,  as  he  "had  suosode  hisself 
with  a  gun." 

This  lengthy  sermon  was  followed  by  a  hymn,  sung 
a  line  at  a  time  at  the  preacher's  dictation: 

"The  body  we  now  to  the  grave  will  commit, 
To  there  see  corruption  till  Jesus  sees  fit 
A  spirit 'al  body  for  it  to  prepare, 
Which  henceforth  then  shall  immortality  wear." 

The  New  Mennonites  being  forbidden  by  the 
4t Rules  of  the  Meeting"  ever  to  hear  a  prayer  or 
sermon  by  one  who  is  not  "a  member,"  it  was  neces- 
sary, at  the  end  of  the  Reverend  Abram  Underwocht's 
sermon,  for  all  the  Mennonites  present  to  retire  to  a 
room  apart  and  sit  behind  closed  doors,  while  the 
Evangelical  brother  put  forth  his  false  doctrine. 

So  religiously  stirred  was  Tillie  by  the  occasion 
that  she  was  strongly  tempted  to  rise  and  follow  into 
the  kitchen  those  who  were  thus  retiring  from  the 
sound  of  the  false  teacher's  voice.  But  her  conver- 
sion not  yet  being  complete,  she  kept  her  place. 

No  doubt  it  was  not  so  much  the  character  of 

I  06 


Adam  Schunk's  funeral 

Brother  Underwocht  's  New  Mennonite  sermon  which 
effected  this  state  in  Tillie  as  that  the  spiritual  condi- 
tion of  the  young  girl,  just  awakening  to  her  woman- 
hood, with  all  its  mysterious  craving,  its  religious 
JSrooding,  its  emotional  susceptibility,  led  her  to  re- 
spond with  her  whole  soul  to  the  first  appeal  to  her 
feelings. 

Absorbed  in  her  mournful  contemplation  of  her 
own  deep  "conviction  of  sin,"  she  did  not  heed  the 
singing,  led  by  the  Evangelical  brother,  of  the  hymn, 

"Rock  of  Ages,  clept  for  me," 

nor  did  she  hear  a  word  of  his  discourse. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  house  services,  and  be- 
fore the  journey  to  the  graveyard,  the  supper  was 
served,  first  to  the  mourners,  and  then  to  all  those 
who  expected  to  follow  the  body  to  the  grave.  The 
third  table,  for  those  who  had  prepared  the  meal,  and 
the  fourth,  for  the  hostlers,  were  set  after  the  depar- 
ture of  the  funeral  procession. 

Convention  has  prescribed  that  the  funeral  meal 
shall  consist  invariably  of  cold  meat,  cheese,  all  sorts 
of  stewed  dried  fruits,  pickles,  "lemon  rice"  (a  dish 
never  omitted),  and  coffee. 

As  no  one  household  possesses  enough  dishes  for 
such  an  occasion,  two  chests  of  dishes  owned  by  the 
Mennonite  church  are  sent  to  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing whenever  needed  by  a  member  of  the  Meeting. 

The  Mennonites  present  suffered  a  shock  to  their 
feelings  upon  the  appearance  of  the  widow  of  the 

107 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

deceased  Adam  Schunk,  for — unprecedented  circum- 
stance ! — she  wore  over  her  black  Mennonite  hood  a 
crape  veil !  This  was  an  innovation  nothing  short  of 
revolutionary,  and  the  brethren  and  sisters,  to  whom 
their  prescribed  form  of  dress  was  sacred,  were  be- 
wildered to  know  how  they  ought  to  regard  such  a 
digression  from  their  rigid  customs. 

"I  guess  Mandy  's  proud  of  herself  with  her  weil," 
Tillie 's  stepmother  whispered  to  her  as  she  gave  the 
girl  a  tray  of  coffee-cups  to  deliver  about  the  table. 

But  Tillie 's  thoughts  were  inward  bent,  and  she 
heeded  not  what  went  on  about  her.  Fear  of  death 
and  the  judgment,  a  longing  to  find  the  peace  which 
could  come  only  with  an  assured  sense  of  her  salva- 
tion, darkness  as  to  how  that  peace  might  be  found, 
a  sense  of  the  weakness  of  her  flesh  and  spirit 
before  her  father's  undoubted  opposition  to  her 
"turning  plain,"  as  well  as  his  certain  refusal  to 
supply  the  wherewithal  for  her  Mennonite  garb, 
should  she  indeed  be  led  of  the  Spirit  to  "give  her- 
self up," — all  these  warring  thoughts  and  emotions 
stamped  their  lines  upon  the  girl's  sweet,  troubled 
countenance,  as,  blind  and  deaf  to  her  surroundings, 
she  lent  her  helping  hand  almost  as  one  acting  in  a 
trance. 


108 


XI 

"POP!  I  FEEL,  TO  BE  PLAIN*' 

FTHHE  psychical  and,  considering  the  critical  age  of 
_L  the  young  girl,  the  physiological  processes  by 
which  Tillie  was  finally  led  to  her  conversion  it  is 
not  necessary  to  analyze;  for  the  experience  is  too 
universal,  and  differs  too  slightly  in  individual  cases, 
to  require  comment.  Perhaps  in  Tillie 's  case  it  was 
a  more  intense  and  permanent  emotion  than  with 
the  average  convert.  Otherwise,  deep  and  earnest 
though  it  was  with  her,  it  was  not  unique. 

The  New  Mennonite  sermon  which  had  been  the 
instrument  to  determine  the  channel  in  which  should 
flow  the  emotional  tide  of  her  awakening  woman- 
hood, had  convinced  her  that  if  she  would  be  saved, 
she  dare  not  compromise  with  the  world  by  joining 
one  of  those  churches  as,  for  instance,  the  Methodist 
or  the  Evangelical,  which  permitted  every  sort  of 
worldly  indulgence, — fashionable  dress,  attendance 
at  the  circus,  voting  at  the  polls,  musical  instruments, 
' '  pleasure-seeking, ' '  and  many  other  things  which  the 
Word  of  God  forbade.  She  must  give  herself  up  to 
the  Lord  absolutely  and  entirely,  forswearing  all  the 
world's  allurements.  The  New  Mennonites  alone,  of 
all  the  Christian  sects,  lived  up  to  this  scriptural 
ideal,  and  with  them  Tillie  would  cast  her  lot. 

109 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

This  austere  body  of  Christians  could  not  so  easily 
have  won  her  heart  had  it  forbidden  her  cherished 
ambition,  constantly  encouraged  and  stimulated  by 
Miss  Margaret,  to  educate  herself.  Fortunately  for 
her  peace  of  mind,  the  New  Mennonites  were  not, 
like  the  Amish,  " enemies  to  education,"  though  to 
be  sure,  as  the  preacher,  Brother  Abram  Underwocht, 
reminded  her  in  her  private  talk  with  him,  "To  be 
dressy,  or  too  well  educated,  or  stylish,  did  n't  belong 
to  Christ  and  the  apostles;  they  were  plain  folks." 

It  was  in  the  lull  of  work  that  came,  even  in  the 
Getz  family,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Tillie,  sum- 
moning to  her  aid  all  the  fervor  of  her  new-found 
faith,  ventured  to  face  the  ordeal  of  opening  up  with 
her  father  the  subject  of  her  conversion. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  kitchen  porch,  dozing  over 
a  big  Bible  spread  open  on  his  knee.  The  children 
were  playing  on  the  lawn,  and  Mrs.  Getz  was  taking 
her  Sunday  afternoon  nap  on  the  kitchen  settee. 

Tillie  seated  herself  on  the  porch  step  at  her  fa- 
ther's feet.  Her  eyes  were  clear  and  bright,  but  her 
face  burned,  and  her  heart  beat  heavily  in  her  heav- 
ing bosom. 

"Pop !"  she  timidly  roused  him  from  his  dozing. 

"Heh?"  he  muttered  gruffly,  opening  his  eyes  and 
lifting  his  head. 

"Pop,  I  got  to  speak  sornepin  to  you." 

An  unusual  note  in  her  voice  arrested  him,  and, 
wide  awake  now,  he  looked  down  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Well?    What,  then?" 

"Pop!  I  feel  to  be  plain." 

1 10 


"Pop!  I  feel  to  be  plain" 

"You!  Feel  fur  turnin'  plain!  Why,  you  ain't 
old  enough  to  know  the  meanin'  of  it!  What  d'  you 
want  about  that  there  theology?" 

"I  'm  fourteen,  pop.  And  the  Spirit  has  led  me 
to  see  the  light.  I  have  gave  myself  up,"  she  affirmed 
quietly,  but  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice. 

"You  have  gave  yourself  up!"  her  father  incredu- 
lously repeated. 

"Yes,  sir.  And  I  'm  loosed  of  all  things  that  be- 
long to  the  world.  And  now  I  feel  fur  wearin'  the 
plain  dress,  fur  that  's  according  to  Scripture,  which 
says,  '  all  is  wanity ! '  ' 

Never  before  in  her  life  had  Tillie  spoken  so  many 
words  to  her  father  at  one  time,  and  he  stared  at  her 
in  astonishment. 

"Yes,- you  're  growin'  up,  that  's  so.  I  ain't  no- 
ticed how  fast  you  was  growin'.  It  don't  seem  no 
time  since  you  was  born.  But  it  's  fourteen  years 
back  a 'ready— yes,  that  's  so.  Well,  Tillie,  if  you 
feel  fur  joinin'  church,  you  're  got  to  join  on  to  the 
Evangelicals.  I  ain't  leavin'  you  follow  no  such 
nonsense  as  to  turn  plain.  That  don't  belong  to  us 
Getzes.  We  're  Evangelicals  this  long  time  a 'ready." 

"Aunty  Em  was  a  Getz,  and  she  's  gave  herself 
up  long  ago." 

"Well,  she  's  the  only  one  by  the  name  Getz  that 
I  ever  knowed  to  be  so  foolish !  I  'm  an  Evangelical, 
and  what  's  good  enough  fur  your  pop  will  do  you, 
I  guess!" 

"The  Evangelicals  ain't  according  to  Scripture, 
pop.  They  have  wine  at  the  Communion,  and  the 

III 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Bible  says,  'Taste  not,  handle  not,'  and  'Look  not 
upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red.'  ' 

That  she  should  criticize  the  Evangelicals  and  pro- 
nounce them  unscriptural  was  disintegrating  to  all 
his  ideas  of  the  subjection  of  children.  His  sun- 
burned face  grew  darker. 

"Mebbe  you  don't  twist  that  there  Book!  Gawd 
he  would  n't  of  created  wine  to  be  made  if  it  would 
be  wrong  fur  to  look  at  it !  You  can 't  come  over  that, 
can  you?  Them  Scripture  you  spoke,  just  mean  not 
to  drink  to  drunkenness,  nor  eat  to  gluttonness. 
But,"  he  sternly  added,  "it  ain't  fur  you  to  answer 
up  to  your  pop !  I  ain't  leavin'  you  dress  plain — and 
that  's  all  that  's  to  say!" 

"I  got  to  do  it,  pop,"  Tillie 's  low  voice  answered. 
"I  must  obey  to  Christ." 

"What  you  sayin'  to  me?  That  you  got  to  do 
somepin  I  tole  you  you  have  n't  the  dare  to  do?  Are 
you  sayin'  that  to  me,  Tillie?  Heh?" 

"I  got  to  obey  to  Christ,"  she  repeated,  her  face 
paling. 

"You  think!  Well,  we  '11  see  about  that  oncet! 
You  leave  me  see  you  obey  in'  to  any  one  before  your 
pop,  and  you  '11  soon  get  learnt  better !  How  do  you 
bring  it  out  that  the  Scripture  says,  'Childern,  obey 
your  parents'?" 

"'Obey  your  parents  in  the  Lord,'"  Tillie 
amended. 

"Well,  you  '11  be  obeyin'  to  the  Scripture  and  your 
parent  by  joinin'  the  Evangelicals.  D'  you  under- 
stand?" 

1 12 


«  Pop !  I  feel  to  be  plain  " 

"The  Evangelicals  don't  hold  to  Scripture,  pop. 
They  enlist.  And  we  don't  read  of  Christ  takin' 
any  interest  in  war." 

"Yes,  but  in  the  Old  Dispensation  them  old  kings 
did  it,  and  certainly  they  was  good  men !  They  're 
in  the  Bible!" 

"But  we  're  livin'  under  the  New  Dispensation. 
And  a  many  things  is  changed  to  what  they  were 
under  the  Old.  Pop,  I  can't  dress  fashionable  any 
more. ' ' 

"Now,  look  here,  Tillie,  I  ought  n't  argy  no  words 
with  you,  fur  you  're  my  child  and  you  're  got  the 
right  to  mind  me  just  because  I  say  it.  But  can't  you 
see  the  inconsistentness  of  the  plain  people?  Now 
a  New  Mennonite  he  says  his  conscience  won't  leave 
him  wear  grand  [wear  worldly  dress]  but  he  '11 
make  his  livin'  in  Lancaster  city  by  keepin'  a  jew'lry- 
store.  And  yet  them  Mennonites  won't  leave  a  sister 
keep  a  millinery-shop  ! ' ' 

"But,"  Tillie  tried  to  hold  her  ground,  "there  's 
watches,  pop,  and  clocks  that  jew'lers  sells.  They  're 
useful.  We  got  to  have  watches  and  clocks.  Millin- 
ery is  only  pleasing  to  the  eye." 

"Well,  the  women  could  n't  go  bare-headed  nei- 
ther, could  they?  And  is  ear-rings  and  such  things 
like  them  useful?  And  all  them  fancy  things  they 
keep  in  their  dry-goods  stores?  Och,  they  're  aw- 
ful inconsistent  that  way !  I  ain't  got  no  use  fur  New 
Mennonites!  Why,  here  one  day,  when  your  mom 
was  livin'  yet,  I  owed  a  New  Mennonite  six  cents, 
and  I  handed  him  a  dime  and  he  could  n't  change  it 

"3 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

out,  but  he  sayed  he  'd  send  me  the  four  cents.  Well, 
I  waited  and  waited,  and  he  never  sent  it.  Then  I 
bought  such  a  postal-card  and  wrote  it  in  town  to 
him  yet.  And  that  did  n't  fetch  the  four  cents 
neither.  I  wrote  to  him  backward  and  forward  till 
I  had  wrote  three  cards  a 'ready,  and  then  I  seen  I 
would  n't  gain  nothin'  by  writin'  one  more  if  he  did 
pay  me,  and  if  he  did  n't  pay  I  'd  lose  that  other 
cent  yet.  So  I  let  it.  Now  that  's  a  New  Mennonite 
fur  you!  Do  you  call  that  consistentness ? " 

"But  it  's  the  Word  of  Gawd  I  go  by,  pop,  not 
by  the  weak  brethren." 

"Well,  you  '11  go  by  your  pop's  word  and  not 
join  to  them  New  Mennonites!  Now  I  don't  want  to 
hear  no  more ! ' ' 

"Won't  you  buy  me  the  plain  garb,  pop?" 

"Buy  you  the  plain  garb!  Now  look  here,  Tillie. 
If  ever  you  ast  me  again  to  leave  you  join  to  anything 
but  the  Evangelicals,  or  speak  somepin  to  me  about 
buyin'  you  the  plain  garb,  I  'm  usin'  the  strap.  Do 
you  hear  me  ? ' ' 

"Pop,"  said  Tillie,  solemnly,  her  face  very  white, 
"I  '11  always  obey  to  you  where  I  can — where  I  think 
it  's  right  to.  But  if  you  won't  buy  me  the  plain 
dress  and  cap,  Aunty  Em  Wackernagel  's  going  to. 
She  says  she  never  knew  what  happiness  it  was  to  be 
had  in  this  life  till  she  gave  herself  up  and  dressed 
plain  and  loosed  herself  from  all  worldly  things. 
And  I  feel  just  like  her." 

"All  right— just  you  come  wearin'  them  Mennonite 

114 


«  Pop  I  I  feel  to  be  plain  " 

costumes  'round  me  oncet!  I  '11  burn  'em  up  like 
what  I  burned  up  them  novels  where  you  lent  off  of 
your  teacher!  And  I  '11  punish  you  so  's  you  won't 
try  it  a  second  time  to  do  what  I  tell  you  you  have  n  't 
the  dare  to  do!" 

The  color  flowed  back  into  Tillie's  white  face  as  he 
spoke.  She  was  crimson  now  as  she  rose  from  the 
porch  step  and  turned  away  from  him  to  go  into  the 
house. 

Jake  Getz  realized,  as  with  a  sort  of  dull  wonder 
his  eyes  followed  her,  that  there  was  a  something  in 
his  daughter's  face  this  day,  and  in  the  bearing  of  her 
young  frame  as  she  walked  before  him,  which  he  was 
not  wont  to  see,  which  he  did  not  understand,  and 
with  which  he  felt  he  could  not  cope.  The  vague  sense 
of  uneasiness  which  it  gave  him  strengthened  his  re- 
solve to  crush,  with  a  strong  hand,  this  budding  in- 
subordination. 

Two  uneventful  weeks  passed  by,  during  which 
Tillie's  quiet  and  dutiful  demeanor  almost  disarmed 
her  father's  threatening  watchfulness  of  her;  so  that 
when,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock,  she  re- 
turned from  a  walk  to  her  Aunty  Em  Wackernagel's, 
clad  in  the  meek  garb  of  the  New  Mennonites,  his 
amazement  at  her  intrepidity  was  even  greater  than 
his  anger. 

The  younger  children,  in  high  glee  at  what  to  them 
was  a  most  comical  transformation  in  their  elder 
sister,  danced  around  her  with  shrieks  of  laughter, 
crying  out  at  the  funny  white  cap  which  she  wore, 

"5 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

and  the  prim  little  three-cornered  cape  falling  over 
her  bosom,  designed  modestly  to  cover  the  vanity  of 
woman's  alluring  form. 

Mrs.  Getz,  mechanically  moving  about  the  kitchen 
to  get  the  supper,  paused  in  her  work  only  long 
enough  to  remark  with  stupid  astonishment,  "Did 
you,  now,  get  religion,  Tillie  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  ma'am.    I  've  gave  myself  up." 

"Where  did  you  come  by  the  plain  dress?" 

"Aunty  Em  bought  it  for  me  and  helped  me  make 
it." 

Her  father  had  followed  her  in  from  the  porch  and 
now  came  up  to  her  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  kitchen.  The  children  scattered  at  his  approach. 

"You  go  up-stairs  and  take  them  clo'es  off!"  he 
commanded.  "I  ain't  leavin'  you  wear  'em  one  hour 
in  this  house!" 

"I  have  no  others  to  put  on,  pop,"  Tillie  gently  an- 
swered, her  soft  eyes  meeting  his  with  an  absence  of 
fear  which  puzzled  and  baffled  him. 

"Where  's  your  others,  then?" 

"I  've  let  'em  at  Aunty  Em's.  She  took  'em  in 
exchange  for  my  plain  dress.  She  says  she  can  use 
'em  on  'Manda  and  Rebecca." 

"Then  you  walk  yourself  right  back  over  to  the 
hotel  and  get  'em  back  off  of  her,  and  let  them  clo'es 
you  got  on.  Go ! "  he  roughly  pointed  to  the  door. 

"She  would  n't  give  'em  back  to  me.  She  'd  know 
I  hadn't  ought  to  yield  up  to  temptation,  and  she  'd 
help  me  to  resist  by  refusing  me  my  fashionable 
clo'es." 

116 


"Pop!  I  feel  to  be  plain" 

"You  tell  her  if  you  come  back  home  without  'em, 
I  'm  whippin'  you!  She  '11  give  'em  to  you  then." 

"She  'd  say  my  love  to  Christ  ought  not  to  be  so 
weak  but  I  can  bear  anything  you  want  to  do  to  me, 
pop.  She  had  to  take  an  awful  lot  off  of  gran 'pop 
when  she  turned  plain.  Pop,"  she  added  earnestly, 
"no  matter  what  you  do  to  me,  I  ain't  givin'  'way; 
I  'm  standin'  firm  to  serve  Christ!" 

"We  '11  see  oncet!"  her  father  grimly  answered, 
striding  across  the  room  and  taking  his  strap  from  its 
corner  in  the  kitchen  cupboard  he  grasped  Tillie's 
slender  shoulder  and  lifted  his  heavy  arm. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  his  wife 
interposed  a  word  against  his  brutality. 

"Jake!" 

In  astonishment  he  turned  to  her.  She  was  as  pale 
as  her  stepdaughter. 

"Jake!  If  she  has  got  religion,  you  '11  have 
awful  bad  luck  if  you  try  to  get  her  away  from 
it!" 

"I  ain't  sayin'  she  can't  get  religion  if  she  wants! 
To  be  sure,  I  brung  her  up  to  be  a  Christian.  But 
I  don't  hold  to  this  here  nonsense  of  turnin'  plain, 
and  I  tole  her  so,  and  she  's  got  to  obey  to  me  or  I  '11 
learn  her!" 

' '  You  '11  have  bad  luck  if  you  whip  her  fur  somepin 
like  this  here,"  his  wife  repeated.  "Don't  you  mind 
how  when  Aunty  Em  turned  plain  and  gran 'pop  he 
acted  to  her  so  ugly  that  way,  it  did  n't  rain  fur  two 
weeks  and  his  crops  was  spoilt,  and  he  got  that  boil 
yet  on  his  neck?  Yes,  you  '11  see  oncet,"  she  warned 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

him,  "if  you  use  the  strap  fur  somepin  like  what  this 
is,  what  you  '11  mebbe  come  by  yet!" 

"Och,  you  're  foolish!"  he  answered,  but  his  tone 
was  not  confident.  His  raised  arm  dropped  to  his 
side  and  he  looked  uneasily  into  Tillie 's  face,  while 
he  still  kept  his  painful  grasp  of  her  shoulder. 

The  soft  bright  eyes  of  the  young  girl  met  his,  not 
with  defiance,  but  with  a  light  in  them  that  somehow 
brought  before  his  mind  the  look  her  mother  had 
worn  the  night  she  died.  Superstition  was  in  his 
blood,  and  he  shuddered  inwardly  at  his  uncanny 
sense  of  mystery  before  .this  unfamiliar,  illumined 
countenance  of  his  daughter.  The  exalted  soul  of 
the  girl  cast  a  spell  which  even  his  unsensitive  spirit 
could  keenly  feel,  and  something  stirred  in  his  breast 
— the  latent  sense  of  affectionate,  protecting  father- 
hood. 

Tillie  saw  and  felt  this  sudden  change  in  him.  She 
lifted  her  free  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  arm,  her  lips 
quivering.  "Father!"  she  half  whispered. 

She  had  never  called  him  that  before,  and  it  seemed 
strangely  to  bring  home  to  him  what,  in  this  crisis 
of  his  child's  life,  was  due  to  her  from  him,  her  only 
living  parent. 

Suddenly  he  released  her  shoulder  and  tossed  away 
the  strap.  ' '  I  see  I  would  n  't  be  doin '  right  to  oppose 
you  in  this  here,  Tillie.  Well,  I  'm  glad,  fur  all,  that 
I  ain't  whippin'  you.  It  goes  ag'in'  me  to  hit  you 
since  you  was  sick  that  time.  You  're  gettin'  full  big, 
too,  to  be  punished  that  there  way,  fur  all  I  always 
sayed  still  I  'd  never  leave  a  child  of  mine  get  ahead  of 

118 


u  'Gawd  bless  you,  my  daughter,  and  help  you  to 
serve  the  Lord  acceptable  ! ' " 


"Pop!  I  feel  to  be  plain" 

me,  no  matter  how  big  they  was,  so  long  as  they 
lived  off  of  me.  But  this  here  's  different.  Yon  're 
feelin'  conscientious  about  this  here  matter,  and  I 
ain't  hinderin'  you." 

To  Tillie's  unspeakable  amazement,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  her  head  and  held  it  there  for  an  instant.  ' '  Gawd 
bless  you,  my  daughter,  and  help  you  to  serve  the 
Lord  acceptable!" 

So  that  crisis  was  past. 

But  Tillie  knew,  that  night,  as  she  rubbed  witch- 
hazel  on  her  sore  shoulder,  that  a  far  worse  struggle 
was  before  her.  In  seeking  to  carry  out  the  deter- 
mination that  burned  in  her  heart  to  get  an  educa- 
tion, no  aid  could  come  to  her  as  it  had  to-day,  from 
her  father's  sense  of  religious  awe.  Would  she  be 
able,  she  wondered,  to  stand  firm  against  his  opposi- 
tion when,  a  second  time,  it  came  to  an  issue  between 
them? 


XII 

ABSALOM  KEEPS  COMPANY 

TILLIE  wrote  to  Miss  Margaret  (she  could  not 
learn  to  call  her  Mrs.  Lansing)  how  that  she  had 
"given  herself  up  and  turned  plain,"  and  Miss  Mar- 
garet, seeing  how  sacred  this  experience  was  to  the 
young  girl,  treated  the  subject  with  all  respect  and 
even  reverence. 

The  correspondence  between  these  two,  together 
with  the  books  which  from  time  to  time  came  to  the 
girl  from  her  faithful  friend,  did  more  toward  Tillie  's 
growth  and  development  along  lines  of  which  her  pa- 
rents had  no  suspicion,  than  all  the  schooling  at 
"William  Penn,  under  the  instruction  of  the  average 
"Millersville  Normal,"  could  ever  have  accomplished. 

And  her  tongue,  though  still  very  provincial,  soon 
lost  much  of  its  native  dialect,  through  her  constant 
reading  and  study. 

Of  course  whenever  her  father  discovered  her  with 
her  books  he  made  her  suffer. 

"You  're  got  education  enough  a 'ready,"  he  would 
insist.  "And  too  much  fur  your  own  good.  Look 
at  me — I  was  only  educated  with  a  Testament  and  a 
spelling-book  and  a  slate.  We  had  no  such  a  black- 
boards even,  to  recite  on.  And  do  /  look  as  if  I  need 
to  know  any  more  'n  what  I  know  a 'ready?" 

122 


Absalom  keeps  company 

Tillie  bore  her  punishments  like  a  martyr — and 
continued  surreptitiously  to  read  and  to  study  when- 
ever and  whatever  she  could ;  and  not  even  the  ex- 
treme conscientiousness  of  a  New  Mennonite  faltered 
at  this  filial  disobedience.  She  obeyed  her  father  im- 
plicitly, however  tyrannical  he  was,  to  the  point 
where  he  bade  her  suppress  and  kill  all  the  best  that 
God  had  given  her  of  mind  and  heart.  Then  she  re- 
volted; and  she  never  for  an  instant  doubted  her  en- 
tire justification  in  eluding  or  defying  his  authority. 

There  was  another  influence  besides  her  books  and 
Miss  Margaret's  letters  which,  unconsciously  to  her- 
self, was  educating  Tillie  at  this  time.  Her  growing 
fondness  for  stealing  off  to  the  woods  not  far  from 
the  farm,  of  climbing  to  the  hill-top  beyond  the 
creek,  or  walking  over  the  fields  under  the  wide  sky 
— not  only  in  the  spring  and  summer,  but  at  all  times 
of  the  year — was  yielding  her  a  richness,  a  depth  and 
breadth,  of  experience  that  nothing  else  could  have 
given  her. 

A  nature  deeply  sensitive  to  the  mysterious  appeal 
of  sky  and  green  earth,  of  deep,  shady  forest  and  glis- 
tening water,  when  unfolding  in  daily  touch  with 
these  things,  will  learn  to  see  life  with  a  broader, 
saner  mind  and  catch  glimpses  and  vistas  of  truth 
with  a  clearer  vision  than  can  ever  come  to  one  whose 
most  susceptible  years  are  spent  walled  in  and  over- 
topped by  the  houses  of  the  city  that  shut  out  and 
stifle  "the  larger  thought  of  God."  And  Tillie,  in 
spite  of  her  narrowing  New  Mennonite  ' '  convictions, ' ' 
did  reach  through  her  growing  love  for  and  intimacy 

I23 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

with  Nature  a  plane  of  thought  and  feeling  which 
was  immeasurably  above  her  perfunctory  creed. 

Sometimes  the  emotions  excited  by  her  solitary 
walks  gave  the  young  girl  greater  pain  than  happi- 
ness—yet it  was  a  pain  she  would  not  have  been 
spared,  for  she  knew,  though  the  knowledge  was  never 
formulated  in  her  thought,  that  in  some  precious,  in- 
timate way  her  suffering  set  her  apart  and  above  the 
villagers  and  farming  people  about  her— those  whose 
placid,  contented  eyes  never  strayed  from  the  potato- 
patch  to  the  distant  hills,  or  lifted  themselves  from 
the  goodly  tobacco-fields  to  the  wide  blue  heavens. 

Thus,  cramped  and  crushing  as  much  of  her  life 
was,  it  had — as  all  conditions  must  have — its  compen- 
sations ;  and  many  of  the  very  circumstances  which  at 
the  time  seemed  most  unbearable  brought  forth  in 
later  years  rich  fruit. 

And  so,  living  under  her  father's  watchful  eye  and 
relentless  rule, — with  long  days  of  drudgery  and  out- 
ward acquiescence  in  his  scheme  of  life  that  she 
devote  herself,  mind,  body,  and  soul,  to  the  service 
of  himself,  his  wife,  and  their  children,  and  in  re- 
turn to  be  poorly  fed  and  scantily  clad,— Tillie  never- 
theless grew  up  in  a  world  apart,  hidden  to  the  sealed 
vision  of  those  about  her ;  as  unknown  to  them  in  her 
real  life  as  though  they  had  never  looked  upon  her 
face;  and  while  her  father  never  for  an  instant 
doubted  the  girl's  entire  submission  to  him,  she  was 
day  by  day  waxing  stronger  in  her  resolve  to  heed 
Miss  Margaret's  constant  advice  and  make  a  fight  for 
her  right  to  the  education  her  father  had  denied  her, 

124 


Absalom  keeps  company 

and  for  a  life  other  than  that  to  which  his  will  would 
consign  her. 

There  were  dark  times  when  her  steadfast  purpose 
seemed  impossible  of  fulfilment.  But  Tillie  felt  she 
would  rather  die  in  the  struggle  than  become  the  sort 
of  apathetic  household  drudge  she  beheld  in  her  step- 
mother— a  condition  into  which  it  would  be  so  easy 
to  sink,  once  she  loosed  her  wagon  from  its  star. 

It  was  when  Tillie  was  seventeen  years  old— a 
slight,  frail  girl,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  of  one 
who  lives  in  two  worlds — that  Absalom  Puntz,  one 
Sunday  evening  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  saw  her  safe 
home  from  meeting  and  asked  permission  to  "keep 
comp'ny"  with  her. 

Now  that  morning  Tillie  had  received  a  letter  from 
Miss  Margaret  (sent  to  her,  as  always,  under  cover 
to  the  doctor),  and  Absalom's  company  on  the  way 
from  church  was  a  most  unwelcome  interruption  to 
her  happy  brooding  over  the  precious  messages  of  love 
and  helpfulness  which  those  letters  always  brought 
her. 

A  request  for  permission  to  "keep  comp'ny"  with 
a  young  lady  meant  a  very  definite  thing  in  Canaan 
Township.  "Let  's  try  each  other,"  was  what  it  sig- 
nified ;  and  acceptance  of  the  proposition  involved  on 
each  side  an  exclusion  of  all  association  with  others 
of  the  opposite  sex.  Tillie  of  course  understood 
this. 

"But  you  're  of  the  World's  people,  Absalom," 
her  soft,  sweet  voice  answered  him.  They  were  walk- 
ing along  in  the  dim  evening  on  the  high  dusty  pike 

125 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

toward  the  Getz  farm.    "And  I  'm  a  member  of  meet- 
ing.   I  can't  marry  out  of  the  meeting." 

"This  long  time  already,  Tillie,  I  was  thinkin' 
about  givin'  myself  up  and  turnin'  plain,"  he  as- 
sured her.  "To  be  sure,  I  know  I  'd  have  to,  to  git 
you.  You  've  took  notice,  ain't  you,  how  reg'lar  I 
'tend  meeting?  Well,  oncet  me  and  you  kin  settle 
this  here  question  of  gittin'  married,  I  'm  turnin' 
plain  as  soon  as  I  otherwise  [possibly]  kin." 

"I  have  never  thought  about  keeping  company, 
Absalom." 

"Nearly  all  the  girls  around  here  as  old  as  you 
has  their  friend  a 'ready." 

Absalom  was  twenty  years  old,  stoutly  built  and 
coarse-featured,  a  deeply  ingrained  obstinacy  being 
the  only  characteristic  his  heavy  countenance  sug- 
gested. He  still  attended  the  district  school  for  a  few 
months  of  the  winter  term.  His  father  was  one  of  the 
richest  farmers  of  the  neighborhood,  and  Absalom, 
being  his  only  child,  was  considered  a  matrimonial 
prize. 

"Is  there  nobody  left  for  you  but  me?"  Tillie  in- 
quired in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  The  conjugal  re- 
lation, as  she  saw  it  in  her  father's  home  and  in  the 
neighborhood,  with  its  entirely  practical  basis  and 
utter  absence  of  sentiment,  had  no  attraction  or  inter- 
est for  her,  and  she  had  long  since  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  none  of  it. 

"There  ain't  much  choice,"  granted  Absalom. 
"But  I  anyways  would  pick  out  you,  Tillie." 

"Why  me?" 

126 


Absalom  keeps  company 

"I  dunno.  I  take  to  you.  And  I  seen  a 'ready  how 
handy  you  was  at  the  work  still.  Mom  says,  too, 
you  'd  make  me  a  good  housekeeper." 

Tillie  never  dreamed  of  resenting  this  practical  ap- 
proval of  her  qualifications  for  the  post  with  which 
Absalom  designed  to  honor  her.  It  was  because  of 
her  familiarity  with  such  matrimonial  standards  as 
these  that  from  her  childhood  up  she  had  determined 
never  to  many.  From  what  she  gathered  of  Miss 
Margaret's  married  life,  through  her  letters,  and  from 
what  she  learned  from  the  books  and  magazines 
which  she  read,  she  knew  that  out  in  the  great  un- 
known world  there  existed  another  basis  of  marriage. 
But  she  did  not  understand  it  and  she  never  thought 
about  it.  The  strongly  emotional  tide  of  her  girlhood, 
up  to  this  time,  had  been  absorbed  by  her  remarkable 
love  for  Miss  Margaret  and  by  her  earnest  religious^ 
ness. 

' '  There  's  no  use  in  your  wasting  your  time  keeping- 
company  with  me,  Absalom.  I  never  intend  to  marry. 
I  've  made  up  my  mind." 

"Is  it  that  your  pop  won't  leave  you,  or  what- 
ever?" 

"I  never  asked  him.  I  don't  know  what  he  would 
say." 

"Mom  spoke  somepin  about  mebbe  your  pop  he  'd 
want  to  keep  you  at  home,  you  bein'  so  useful  to 
him  and  your  mom.  But  I  sayed  when  you  come 
eighteen,  you  're  your  own  boss.  Ain't,  Tillie?" 

"Father  probably  would  object  to  my  marrying 
because  I  'm  needed  at  home,"  Tillie  agreed.  "That  's 
127 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

;why  they  would  n't  leave  me  go  to  school  after  I  was 
eleven.  But  I  don't  want  to  marry." 

"You  leave  me  be  your  steady  friend,  Tillie,  and 
I  '11  soon  get  you  over  them  views,"  urged  Absalom, 
confidently. 

But  Tillie  shook  her  head.  "It  would  just  waste 
your  time,  Absalom." 

In  Canaan  Township  it  would  have  been  considered 
highly  dishonorable  for  a  girl  to  allow  a  young  man 
to  "sit  up  with  her  Sundays"  if  she  definitely  knew 
she  would  never  marry  him.  Time  meant  money,  and 
even  the  time  spent  in  courting  must  be  judiciously 
used. 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do  waste  my  time  settin'  up  with 
you  Sundays,  Tillie.  I  take  to  you  that  much,  it  's 
something  surprising,  now!  "Will  you  give  me  the 
dare  to  come  next  Sunday?" 

"If  you  don't  mind  wasting  your  time — "  Tillie 
reluctantly  granted. 

"It  won't  be  wasted.  I  '11  soon  get  you  to  think 
different  to  what  you  think  now.  You  just  leave  me 
set  up  with  you  a  couple  Sundays  and  see!" 

"I  know  I  '11  never  think  any  different,  Absalom. 
iYou  must  not  suppose  that  I  will." 

"Is  it  somepin  you  're  got  ag'in'  me?"  he  asked 
incredulously,  for  he  knew  he  was  considered  a  prize. 
"I  'm  well-fixed  enough,  ain't  I?  I  'd  make  you  a 
good  purvider,  Tillie.  And  I  don't  addict  to  no  bad 
habits.  I  don't  chew.  Nor  I  don't  drink.  Nor  I 
don't  swear  any.  The  most  I  ever  sayed  when  I  was 
spited  was  'confound  it.'  ' 

128 


Absalom  keeps  company 

"It  is  n't  that  I  have  anything  against  you,  Ab- 
salom, especially.  But — look  here,  Absalom,  if  you 
were  a  woman,  would  you  marry?  What  does  a 
woman  gain?" 

Absalom  stared  at  her  in  the  dusky  evening  light  of 
the  high  road.  To  ask  of  his  slow-moving  brain  that 
it  question  the  foundations  of  the  universe  and  wres- 
tle with  a  social  and  psychological  problem  like  this 
made  the  poor  youth  dumb  with  bewilderment. 

''Why  should  a  woman  get  married?"  Tillie  re- 
peated. 

"That  's  what  a  woman  's  fur,"  Absalom  found  his 
tongue  to  say. 

"She  loses  everything  and  gains  nothing." 

"She  gets  kep',"  Absalom  argued. 

"Like  the  horses.  Only  not  so  carefully.  No, 
thank  you,  Absalom.  I  can  keep  myself." 

"I  'd  keep  you  better  'n  your  pop  keeps  you,  any- 
ways, Tillie.  I  'd  make  you  a  good  purvider." 

"I  won't  ever  marry,"  Tillie  repeated. 

"I  did  n't  know  you  was  so  funny,"  Absalom  sul- 
lenly answered.  "You  might  be  glad  I  want  to  be 
your  reg'lar  friend." 

"No,"  said  Tillie,  "I  don't  care  about  it." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  Tillie 
looked  away  into  the  starlit  night  and  thought  of 
Miss  Margaret  and  wished  she  were  alone,  that  her 
thoughts  might  be  uninterrupted.  Absalom,  at  her 
side,  kicked  up  the  dust  with  his  heavy  shoes,  as  he 
sulkily  hung  his  head. 

Presently  he  spoke  again. 

I2Q 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Will  you  leave  me  come  to  see  you  Sundays,  still, 
if  I  take  my  ehancet  that  I  'm  wastin'  my  time?" 

"If  you  '11  leave  it  that  way,"  Tillie  acquiesced, 
"and  not  hold  me  to  anything." 

"All  right.  Only  you  won't  leave  no  one  else  set 
up  with  you,  ain't  not?" 

"There  is  n't  any  one  else." 

"But  some  chance  time  another  feller  might  turn 
up  oncet  that  wants  to  keep  comp'ny  with  you  too." 

"I  won't  promise  anything,  Absalom.  If  you  want 
to  come  Sundays  to  see  me  and  the  folks,  you  can. 
That  's  all  I  '11  say." 

"I  never  seen  such  a  funny  girl  as  what  you  are!" 
growled  Absalom. 

Tillie  made  no  reply,  and  again  they  went  on  in 
silence. 

"Say!"    It  was  Absalom  who  finally  spoke. 

Tillie 's  absent,  dreamy  gaze  came  down  from  the 
stars  and  rested  upon  his  heavy,  dull  face. 

"Ezra  Herr  he  's  resigned  William  Penn.  He  's 
gettin'  more  pay  at  Abra'm  Lincoln  in  Janewille.  It 
comes  unhandy,  his  leavin',  now  the  term  's  just 
started  and  most  all  the  applicants  took  a  'ready.  Pop 
he  got  a  letter  from  in  there  at  Lancaster  off  of 
Superintendent  Reingruber  and  he  's  sendin'  us  a 
applicant  out  till  next  Saturday  three  weeks— fur  the 
directors  to  see  oncet  if  he  '11  do." 

Absalom's  father  was  secretary  of  the  Board,  and 
Mr.  Getz  was  the  treasurer. 

"Pop  he  's  goin'  over  to  see  your  pop  about  it 
till  to-morrow  evenin'  a 'ready  if  he  can  make  it  suit.'* 

I30 


Absalom  keeps  company 

"When  does  Ezra  go?"  Tillie  inquired.  The  New 
Mennonite  rule  which  forbade  the  use  of  all  titles 
had  led  to  the  custom  in  this  neighborhood,  so  popu- 
lated with  Mennonites,  of  calling  each  one  by  his 
Christian  name. 

"Till  next  Friday  three  weeks,"  Absalom  replied. 
"Pop  says  he  don't  know  what  to  think  about  this 
here  man  Superintendent  Reingruber  's  sendin'  out. 
He  ain't  no  Millersville  Normal.  The  superintendent 
says  he  's  a  'Harvard  gradyate' — whatever  that  is, 
pop  says!  Pop  he  sayed  it  ain't  familiar  with  him 
what  that  there  is.  And  I  guess  the  other  directors 
don't  know  neither.  Pop  he  sayed  when  we  're 
payin'  as  much  as  forty  dollars  a  month  we  had 
ought,  now,  to  have  a  Millersville  Normal,  and  nothin' 
less.  Who  wants  to  pay  forty  dollars  a  month  fur 
such  a  Harvard  gradyate  that  we  don't  know  right 
what  it  is." 

"What  pay  will  Ezra  get  at  Janeville?"  Tillie 
asked.  Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  thought  how  she 
might,  perhaps,  in  another  year  be  the  applicant  for 
a  vacancy  at  William  Penn. 

"Around  forty- five  dollars,"  Absalom  answered. 

"Oh!"  Tillie  said;  "it  seems  so  much,  don't  it?" 

"Fur  settin'  and  doin'  nothin'  but  hearin'  off 
Bpellin'  and  readin'  and  whatever,  it  's  too  much! 
Pop  says  he  's  goin'  to  ast  your  pop  and  the  rest 
of  the  Board  if  they  had  n't  ought  to  ast  this  here 
Harvard  gradyate  to  take  a  couple  dollars  less,  seein' 
he  ain't  no  Millersville  Normal." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  farm,  and  Til- 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

lie,  not  very  warmly,  asked  Absalom  whether  he 
would  "come  in  and  sit  awhile."  She  almost  sighed 
audibly  as  he  eagerly  consented. 

"When  he  had  left  at  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  she 
softly  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room,  careful  not  to 
disturb  the  sleeping  household.  Tillie  wondered  why 
it  was  that  every  girl  of  her  acquaintance  exulted  in 
being  asked  to  keep  company  with  a  gentleman  friend. 
She  had  found  "sitting  up"  a  more  fatiguing  task 
than  even  the  dreaded  Monday's  washing  which  would 
confront  her  on  the  morrow. 

"Seein'  it  's  the  first  time  me  and  you  set  up  to- 
gether, I  mebbe  better  not  stay  just  so  late,"  Absa- 
lom had  explained  when,  after  three  hours'  courting, 
he  had  reluctantly  risen  to  take  his  leave,  under  the 
firm  conviction,  as  Tillie  plainly  saw,  that  she  felt 
as  sorry  to  have  him  go  as  evidently  he  was  to  part 
from  her ! 

"How  late,"  thought  Tillie,  "will  he  stay  the  sec- 
ond time  he  sits  up  with  me?  And  what,"  she  won- 
dered, "do  other  girls  see  in  it?" 

The  following  Sunday  night,  Absalom  came  again, 
and  this  time  he  stayed  until  one  o'clock,  with  the 
result  that  on  the  following  Monday  morning  Tillie 
overslept  herself  and  was  one  hour  late  in  starting 
the  washing. 

It  was  that  evening,  after  supper,  while  Mrs.  Getz 
was  helping  her  husband  make  his  toilet  for  a  meeting 
of  the  School  Board — at  which  the  application  of  that 
suspicious  character,  the  Harvard  graduate,  was  to 
be  considered— that  the  husband  and  wife  discussed 

I32 


Absalom  keeps  company 

these  significant  Sunday  night  visits.  Mrs.  Getz  opened 
up  the  subject  while  she  performed  the  wifely  office 
of  washing  her  husband's  neck,  his  increasing  bulk 
making  that  duty  a  rather  difficult  one  for  him. 
Standing  over  him  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  in  the  kitchen, 
holding  on  his  knees  a  tin  basin  full  of  soapy  water, 
she  scrubbed  his  fat,  sunburned  neck  with  all  the 
vigor  and  enthusiasm  that  she  would  have  applied  to 
the  cleaning  of  the  kitchen  porch  or  the  scouring  of 
an  iron  skillet. 

A  custom  prevailed  in  the  county  of  leaving  one's 
parlor  plainly  furnished,  or  entirely  empty,  until  the 
eldest  daughter  should  come  of  age ;  it  was  then  fitted 
up  in  style,  as  a  place  to  which  she  and  her  "regular 
friend"  could  retire  from  the  eyes  of  the  girl's  folks 
of  a  Sunday  night  to  do  their  "setting  up."  The 
occasion  of  a  girl's  "furnishing"  was  a  notable  one, 
usually  celebrated  by  a  party;  and  it  was  this  fact 
that  led  her  stepmother  to  remark  presently: 

"Say,  pop,  are  you  furnishin'  fur  Tillie,  now 
she  's  comin'  eighteen  years  old?" 

"I  ain't  thought  about  it,"  Mr.  Getz  answered 
shortly.  ' '  That  front  room  's  furnished  good  enough 
a 'ready.  No— I  ain't  spendin'  any!" 

"Seein'  she  's  a  member  and  wears  plain,  it  would  n't 
cost  wery  expensive  to  furnish  fur  her,  fur  she  has  n't 
the  dare  to  have  nothin'  stylish  like  a  organ  or  gilt- 
framed  landscapes  or  sich  stuffed  furniture  that 
way. ' ' 

' '  The  room  's  good  enough  the  way  it  is, ' '  repeated 
Mr.  Getz.  "I  don't  see  no  use  spendin'  on  it." 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"It  needs  new  paper  and  carpet.  Pop,  it  '11  get 
put  out  if  you  don't  furnish  fur  her.  The  neigh- 
bors '11  talk  how  you  're  so  close  with  your  own  child 
after  she  worked  fur  you  so  good  still.  I  don't  like 
it  so  well,  pop,  havin'  the  neighbors  talk." 

"Leave  'em  talk.  Their  talkin'  don't  cost  me  no- 
thin'.  I  ain't  furnishin'!  "  His  tone  was  obstinate 
and  angry. 

His  wife  rubbed  him  down  with  a  crash  towel  as 
vigorously  as  she  had  washed  him,  then  fastened  his 
shirt,  dipped  the  family  comb  in  the  soapy  water  and 
began  with  artistic  care  to  part  and  comb  his  hair. 

"Absalom  Puntz  he  's  a  nice  party,  pop.  He  '11 
be  well-fixed  till  his  pop  's  passed  away  a 'ready." 

"You  think!  Well,  now  look  here,  mom!"  Mr. 
Getz  spoke  with  stern  decision.  "Tillie  ain't  got 
the  dare  to  keep  comp'ny  Sundays!  It  made  her  a 
whole  hour  late  with  the  washin'  this  mornin'.  I  'in 
tellin'  her  she  's  got  to  tell  Absalom  Puntz  he  can't 
come  no  more." 

Mrs.  Getz  paused  with  comb  poised  in  air,  and  her 
feeble  jaw  dropped  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  pop!"  she  said.  "Ain't  you  leavin'  Tillie 
keep  comp'ny?" 

"No,"  affirmed  Mr.  Getz.  "I  ain't.  What  does 
a  body  go  to  the  Bother  of  raisin'  childern  furf  Just 
to  lose  'em  as  soon  as  they  are  growed  enough  to  help 
earn  a  little?  I  ain't  leavin'  Tillie  get  married! 
She  's  stayin'  at  home  to  help  her  pop  and  mom— 
except  in  winter  when  they  ain't  so  much  work,  and 
mebbe  then  I  'm  hirin'  her  out  to  Aunty  Em  at  the 


"She  scrubbed  his  fat,  sunburned  neck." 


Absalom  keeps  company 

hotel  where  she  can  earn  a  little,  too,  to  help  along. 
She  can  easy  earn  enough  to  buy  the  childern's  winter 
clo'es  and  gums  and  school-books." 

"When  she  comes  eighteen,  pop,  she  '11  have  the 
right  to  get  married  whether  or  no  you  'd  conceited 
you  would  n't  give  her  the  dare." 

* '  If  I  say  I  ain  't  buyin '  her  her  aus  styer,  Absalom 
Puntz  nor  no  other  feller  would  take  her." 

An  "aus  styer"  is  the  household  outfit  always- 
given  to  a  bride  by  her  father. 

"Well,  to  be  sure,"  granted  Mrs.  Getz,  "I  'd  like 
keep  in'  Tillie  home  to  help  me  out  with  the  work  still. 
I  did  n't  see  how  I  was  ever  goin'  to  get  through  with- 
out her.  But  I  thought  when  Absalom  Puntz  begin 
to  come  Sundays,  certainly  you  'd  be  fur  her  havin' 
him.  I  was  sayin'  to  her  only  this  mornin'  that  if 
she  did  n't  want  to  dishearten  Absalom  from  comin' 
to  set  up  with  her,  she  'd  have  to  take  more  notice 
to  him  and  not  act  so  dopplig  with  him— like  as  if 
she  did  n't  care  whether  or  no  he  made  up  to  her.  I 
tole  her  I  'd  think,  now,  she  'd  be  wonderful  pleased 
at  his  wantin'  her,  and  him  so  well-fixed.  Certainly 
I  never  conceited  you  'd  be  ag'in'  it.  Tillie  she  did  n't 
answer  nothin'.  Sometimes  I  do  now  think  Tillie  's 
some  different  to  what  other  girls  is." 

"I  'd  be  glad,"  said  Jacob  Getz  in  a  milder  tone, 
"if  she  ain't  set  on  havin'  him.  I  was  some  oneasy 
she  might  take  it  a  little  hard  when  I  tole  her  she  dar- 
sent  get  married." 

"Och,  Tillie  she  never  takes  nothin'  hard,"  Mrs. 
Getz  answered  easily.  "She  ain't  never  ast  me  was 

137 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

you  goin'  to  furnish  fur  her.  She  don't  take  no 
interest.  She  's  so  funny  that  way.  I  think  to  my- 
.self,  still,  Tillie  is,  now,  a  little  dumm!" 

It  happened  that  while  this  dialogue  was  taking 
place,  Tillie  was  in  the  room  above  the  kitchen,  put- 
ting the  two  most  recently  arrived  Getz  babies  to  bed ; 
and  as  she  sat  near  the  open  register  with  a  baby  on 
her  lap,  every  word  that  passed  between  her  father 
and  stepmother  was  perfectly  audible  to  her. 

With  growing  bitterness  she  listened  to  her  father's 
frank  avowal  of  his  selfish  designs.  At  the  same  time 
she  felt  a  thrill  of  exultation,  as  she  thought  of  the 
cherished  secret  locked  in  her  breast — hidden  the  more 
securely  from  those  with  whom  she  seemed  to  live 
nearest.  How  amazed  they  would  be,  her  stolid,  un- 
suspicious parents,  when  they  discovered  that  she  had 
been  secretly  studying  and,  with  Miss  Margaret's  help, 
preparing  herself  for  the  high  calling  of  a  teacher! 
One  more  year,  now,  and  she  would  be  ready,  Miss 
Margaret  assured  her,  to  take  the  county  superin- 
tendent's examination  for  a  certificate  to  teach.  Then 
good-by  to  household  drudgery  and  the  perpetual 
self-sacrifice  that  robbed  her  of  all  that  was  worth 
while  in  life. 

With  a  serene  mind,  Tillie  rose,  with  the  youngest 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  tenderly  tucked  it  in  its  lit- 
tle bed. 


138 


XIII 

EZRA    HERR,    PEDAGOGUE 

IT  was  a  few  days  later,  at  the  supper-table,  that 
Tillie's  father  made  an  announcement  for  which 
she  was  not  wholly  unprepared. 

"I  'm  hirin'  you  out  this  winter,  Tillie,  at  the 
hotel.  Aunty  Em  says  she  's  leavin'  both  the  girls 
go  to  school  again  this  winter  and  she  '11  need  hired 
help.  She  '11  pay  me  two  dollars  a  week  fur  you. 
She  '11  pay  it  to  me  and  I  '11  buy  you  what  you  need, 
still,  out  of  it.  You  're  goin'  till  next  Monday." 

Tillie's  heart  leaped  high  with  pleasure  at  this  news. 
She  was  fond  of  her  Aunty  Em ;  she  knew  that  life 
at  the  country  hotel  would  be  varied  and  interesting 
in  comparison  with  the  dull,  grubbing  existence  of 
her  own  home;  she  would  have  to  work  very  hard, 
of  course,  but  not  so  hard,  so  unceasingly,  as  under 
her  father's  eye;  and  she  would  have  absolute  free- 
dom to  devote  her  spare  time  to  her  books.  The 
thought  of  escaping  from  her  father's  watchfulness, 
and  the  prospect  of  hours  of  safe  and  uninterrupted 
study,  filled  her  with  secret  joy. 

"I  tole  Aunty  Em  she  's  not  to  leave  you  waste 
no  time  readin';  when  she  don't  ne-  1  you,  you  're 
to  come  home  and  help  mom  still.  Mom  she  says  she 

139 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

can't  get  through  the  winter  sewin'  without  you. 
Well,  Aunty  Em  she  says  you  can  sew  evenin's  over 
there  at  the  hotel,  on  the  childern's  clo'es.  Mom  she 
can  easy  get  through  the  other  work  without  you, 
now  Sallie  's  goin'  on  thirteen.  Till  December 
a  'ready  Sally  '11  be  thirteen.  And  the  winter  work  's 
easy  to  what  the  summer  is.  In  summer,  to  be  sure, 
you  '11  have  to  come  home  and  help  me  and  mom. 
But  in  winter  I  'm  hirin '  you  out. ' ' 

"But  Sally  ain't  as  handy  as  what  Tillie  is,"  said 
Mrs.  Getz,  plaintively.  "And  I  don't  see  how  I  'm 
goin'  to  get  through  oncet  without  Tillie." 

"Sally  's  got  to  learn  to  be  handier,  that  's  all. 
She  's  got  to  get  learnt  like  what  I  always  learnt  Til- 
lie  fur  you." 

Fire  flashed  in  Tillie 's  soft  eyes— a  momentary 
flame  of  shame  and  aversion;  if  her  blinded  father 
had  seen  and  understood,  he  would  have  realized  how 
little,  after  all,  he  had  ever  succeeded  in  "learning" 
her  the  subservience  he  demanded  of  his  children. 

As  for  the  warning  to  her  aunt,  she  knew  that  it 
would  be  ignored;  that  Aunty  Em  would  never  in- 
terfere with  the  use  she  made  of  the  free  time  allowed 
her,  no  matter  what  her  father's  orders  were  to  the 
contrary. 

"And  you  ain't  to  have  Absalom  Puntz  comin'  over 
there  Sundays  neither,"  her  father  added.  "I  tole 
Aunty  Em  like  I  tole  you  the  other  day,  I  ain't  leavin' 
you  keep  comp'ny.  I  raised  you,  now  you  have  the 
right  to  work  and  help  along  a  little.  It  's  little 
enough  a  girl  can  earn  anyways." 

140 


Ezra  Herr,  Pedagogue 

Tillie  made  no  comment.  Her  silence  was  of  course 
understood  by  her  father  to  mean  submission;  while 
her  stepmother  felt  in  her  heart  a  contempt  for  a 
meekness  that  would  bear,  without  a  word  of  protest, 
the  loss  of  a  steady  friend  so  well-fixed  and  so  alto- 
gether desirable  as  Absalom  Puntz. 

In  Absalom's  two  visits  Tillie  had  been  sufficiently 
impressed  with  the  steadiness  of  purpose  and  obsti- 
nacy of  the  young  man's  character  to  feel  appalled 
at  the  fearful  task  of  resisting  his  dogged  determina- 
tion to  marry  her.  So  confident  he  evidently  was  of 
ultimately  winning  her  that  at  times  Tillie  found 
herself  quite  sharing  his  confidence  in  the  success  of 
his  courting,  which  her  father's  interdict  she  knew 
would  not  interfere  with  in  the  least.  She  always 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  being  Absalom's  wife; 
and  a  feeling  she  could  not  always  fling  off,  as  of  some 
impending  doom,  at  times  buried  all  the  high  hopes 
which  for  the  past  seven  years  had  been  the  very 
breath  of  her  life. 

Tillie  had  one  especially  strong  reason  for  rejoicing 
in  the  prospect  of  going  to  the  village  for  the  winter. 
The  Harvard  graduate,  if  elected,  would  no  doubt 
board  at  the  hotel,  or  necessarily  near  by,  and  she 
could  get  him  to  lend  her  books  and  perhaps  to  give 
her  some  help  with  her  studies. 

The  village  of  New  Canaan  and  all  the  township 
were  curious  to  see  this  stranger.  The  school  direc- 
tors had  felt  that  they  were  conceding  a  good  deal 
in  consenting  to  consider  the  application  of  such  an 
unknown  quantity,  when  they  could,  at  forty  dollars 

141 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

a  month,  easily  secure  the  services  of  a  Millersville 
Normal.  But  the  stress  that  had  been  brought  to 
bear  upon  them  by  the  county  superintendent,  whose 
son  had  been  a  classmate  of  the  candidate,  had  been 
rather  too  strong  to  be  resisted ;  and  so  the  ' '  Harvard 
gradyate  man"  was  coming. 

That  afternoon  Tillie  had  walked  over  in  a  pouring 
rain  to  William  Penn  to  carry  "gums"  and  umbrel- 
las to  her  four  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  and  she 
had  realized,  with  deep  exultation,  while  listening  to 
Ezra  Herr's  teaching,  that  she  was  already  far  better 
equipped  than  was  Ezra  to  do  the  work  he  was  doing, 
—and  he  was  a  Millersville  Normal! 

It  happened  that  Ezra  was  receiving  a  visit  from  a 
committee  of  Janeville  school  directors,  and  he  had 
departed  from  his  every-day  mechanical  style  of 
teaching  in  favor  of  some  fancy  methods  which  he  had 
imbibed  at  the  Normal  School  during  his  attendance 
at  the  spring  term,  and  which  he  reserved  for  use 
on  occasions  like  the  present.  Tillie  watched  him 
with  profound  attention,  but  hardly  with  profound 
respect. 

"Childern,"  Ezra  said,  with  a  look  of  deep  thought, 
as  he  impressively  paced  up  and  down  before  the 
class  of  small  boys  and  girls  ranged  on  the  plat- 
form, "now,  childern,  what  's  this  reading  lesson 
about?" 

"  'Bout  a  apple-tree!"  answered  several  eager  lit- 
tle voices. 

"Yes,"  said  Ezra.  "About  an  apple-tree.  Correct. 
Novr,  childern— er— what  grows  on  apple-trees,  heh?" 

142 


Ezra  Herr,  Pedagogue 

"Apples!"  answered  the  intelligent  class. 

"Correct.  Apples.  And — now — what  was  it  that 
came  to  the  apple-tree?" 

"A  little  bird." 

"Yes.  A  bird  came  to  the  apple-tree.  Well — er," 
he  floundered  for  a  moment,  then,  by  a  sudden  inspi- 
ration, "what  can  a  bird  do?" 

"Fly!  and  sing!" 

"A  bird  can  fly  and  sing,"  Ezra  nodded.  "Very 
good.  Now,  Sadie,  you  dare  begin.  I  '11  leave  each 
one  read  a  werse. " 

The' next  recitation  was  a  Fourth  Reader  lesson  con- 
sisting of  a  speech  of  Daniel  Webster's,  the  import 
of  which  not  one  of  the  children,  if  indeed  the  teacher 
himself,  had  the  faintest  suspicion.  And  so  the  class 
was  permitted  to  proceed,  without  interruption,  in  its 
labored  conning  of  the  massive  eloquence  of  that  great 
statesman;  and  the  directors  presently  took  their  de- 
parture in  the  firm  conviction  that  in  Ezra  Herr  they 
had  made  a  good  investment  of  the  forty-five  dollars 
a  month  appropriated  to  their  town  out  of  the  State 
treasury,  and  they  agreed,  on  their  way  back  to  Jane- 
ville,  that  New  Canaan  was  to  be  pitied  for  having 
to  put  up  with  anything  so  unheard-of  as  "a  Harvard 
gradyate  or  whatever,"  after  having  had  the  advan- 
tages of  an  educator  like  Ezra  Herr. 

And  Tillie,  as  she  walked  home  with  her  four 
brothers  and  sisters,  hoped,  for  the  sake  of  her  own 
advancement,  that  a  Harvard  graduate  was  at  least 
not  less  intelligent  than  a  Millersville  Normal. 


XIV 

THE   HARVARD   GRADUATE 

THAT  a  man  holding  a  Harvard  degree  should 
consider  so  humble  an  educational  post  as  that 
of  New  Canaan  needs  a  word  of  explanation. 

Walter  Fairchilds  was  the  protege  of  his  uncle,  the 
High  Church  bishop  of  a  New  England  State,  who 
had  practically,  though  not  legally,  adopted  him,  upon 
the  death  of  his  father,  when  the  boy  was  fourteen 
years  old,  his  mother  having  died  at  his  birth. 

It  was  tacitly  understood  by  Walter  that  his  uncle 
was  educating  him  for  the  priesthood.  His  life,  from 
the  time  the  bishop  took  charge  of  him  until  he  was 
ready  for  college,  was  spent  in  Church  boarding- 
schools. 

A  spiritually  minded,  thoughtful  boy,  of  an  emo- 
tional temperament  which  responded  to  every  appeal 
of  beauty,  whether  of  form,  color,  sound,  or  ethics, 
Walter  easily  fell  in  with  his  uncle's  designs  for  him, 
and  rivaled  him  in  the  fervor  of  his  devotion  to  the 
esthetic  ritual  of  his  Church. 

His  summer  vacations  were  spent  at  Bar  Harbor 
with  the  bishop's  family,  which  consisted  of  his  wife 
and  two  anemic  daughters.  They  were  people  of  lim- 
ited interests,  who  built  up  barriers  about  their  lives 

144 


The  Harvard  graduate 

on  all  sides ;  social  hedges  which  excluded  all  humanity 
but  a  select  and  very  dull,  uninteresting  circle;  in- 
tellectual walls  which  never  admitted  a  stray  uncon- 
ventional idea ;  moral  demarcations  which  nourished 
within  them  the  Mammon  of  self-righteousness,  and 
theological  barriers  which  shut  out  the  sunlight  of  a 
broad  charity. 

Therefore,  when  in  the  course  of  his  career  at  Har- 
vard, Walter  Fairchilds  discovered  that  intellectually 
he  had  outgrown  not  only  the  social  creed  of  the  divine 
right  of  the  well-born,  in  which  these  people  had  edu- 
cated him,  but  their  theological  creed  as  well,  the  ne- 
cessity of  breaking  the  fact  to  them,  of  wounding 
their  affection  for  him,  of  disappointing  the  fond 
and  cherished  hope  with  which  for  years  his  uncle 
had  spent  money  upon  his  education — the  ordeal  which 
he  had  to  face  was  a  fiery  one. 

When,  in  deepest  sorrow,  and  with  all  the  delicacy 
of  his  sensitive  nature,  he  told  the  bishop  of  his 
changed  mental  attitude  toward  the  problem  of  re- 
ligion, it  seemed  to  him  that  in  his  uncle's  reception 
of  it  the  spirit  of  the  Spanish  Inquisitors  was  revived, 
so  mad  appeared  to  him  his  horror  of  this  heresy 
and  his  conviction  that  he,  Walter,  was  a  poison  in 
the  moral  atmosphere,  which  must  be  exterminated 
at  any  cost. 

In  this  interview  between  them,  the  bishop  stood 
revealed  to  him  in  a  new  character,  and  yet  Walter 
seemed  to  realize  that  in  his  deeper  consciousness  he 
had  always  known  him  for  what  he  really  was,  though 
all  the  circumstances  of  his  conventional  life  had  con- 

H5 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

duced  to  hide  his  real  self.  He  saw,  now,  how  the  sub- 
missiveness  of  his  own  dreamy  boyhood  had  never 
called  into  active  force  his  guardian's  native  love  of 
domineering;  his  intolerance  of  opposition;  the  pride 
of  his  exacting  will.  But  on  the  first  provocation  of 
circumstances,  these  traits  stood  boldly  forth. 

"Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  spent  my  time  and 
money  upon  you — to  bring  up  an  infidel?"  Bishop 
Fairchilds  demanded,  when  he  had  in  part  recovered 
from  the  first  shock  of  amazement  the  news  had  given 
him. 

"I  am  not  an  infidel  even  if  I  have  outgrown  High 
Church  dogmas.  I  have  a  Faith — I  have  a  Religion; 
and  I  assure  you  that  I  never  so  fully  realized  the 
vital  truth  of  my  religion  as  I  do  now — now  that  I 
see  things,  not  in  the  dim  cathedral  light,  but  out 
under  the  broad  heavens !" 

"How  can  you  dare  to  question  the  authority  of 
our  Holy  Mother,  the  Church,  whose  teachings  have 
come  down  to  us  through  all  these  centuries,  bearing 
the  sacred  sanction  of  the  most  ancient  authority?" 

"Old  things  can  rot!"  Walter  answered. 

"And  you  fancy,"  the  bishop  indignantly  de- 
manded, "that  I  will  give  one  dollar  for  your  support 
while  you  are  adhering  to  this  blasphemy?  That  I 
will  ever  again  even  so  much  as  break  bread  with  you, 
until,  in  humble  contrition,  you  return  to  your  alle- 
giance to  the  Church?" 

Walter  lifted  his  earnest  eyes  and  met  squarely  his 
uncle's  frowning  stare.  Then  the  boy  rose. 

"Nothing,  then,  is  left  for  me,"  he  said  steadily, 

146 


The  Harvard  graduate 

"but  to  leave  your  home,  give  up  the  course  of  study 
I  had  hoped  to  continue  at  Harvard,  and  get  to 
work. ' ' 

"You  fully  realize  all  that  this  step  must  mean?" 
his  uncle  coldly  asked  him.  "You  are  absolutely  pen- 
niless." 

"  In  a  matter  of  this  kind,  uncle,  you  must  re- 
alize that  such  a  consideration  could  not  possibly 
enter  in." 

"You  have  not  a  penny  of  your  own.  The  few  thou- 
sands that  your  father  left  were  long  ago  used  up  in 
your  school-bills." 

"And  I  am  much  in  your  debt;  I  know  it  all." 

"So  you  choose  poverty  and  hardship  for  the  sake 
of  this  perversity?" 

"Others  have  suffered  harder  things  for  principle." 

Thus  they  parted. 

And  thus  it  was,  through  the  suddenness  and  uner- 
pectedness  of  the  loss  of  his  home  and  livelihood, 
that  Walter  Fairchilds  came  to  apply  for  the  position 
at  William  Penn. 

"HERE,  Tillie,  you  take  and  go  up  to  Sister  Jennie 
Hershey's  and  get  some  mush.  I  'm  makin'  fried 
mush  fur  supper,"  said  Aunty  Em,  bustling  into  the 
hotel  kitchen  where  her  niece .  was  paring  potatoes, 
one  Saturday  afternoon.  "Here  's  a  quarter.  Get 
two  pound." 

"Oh,  Tillie,"  called  her  cousin  Rebecca  from  the 
adjoining  dining-room,  which  served  also  as  the  fam- 
ily sitting-room,  "hurry  on  and  you  11  mebbe  be  in 

H7 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

time  to  see  the  stage  corne  in  with  the  new  teacher  in. 
Mebbe  you  '11  see  him  to  speak  to  yet  up  at  Her- 
shey's." 

"Lizzie  Hershey  's  that  wonderful  tickled  that  the 
teacher  's  going  to  board  at  their  place!"  said 
Amanda,  the  second  daughter,  a  girl  of  Tillie 's  age, 
as  she  stood  in  the  kitchen  doorway  and  watched  Til- 
lie  put  on  her  black  hood  over  the  white  Mennonite 
cap.  Stout  Aunty  Em  also  wore  the  Mennonite  dress, 
which  lent  a  certain  dignity  to  her  round  face  with  its 
alert  but  kindly  eyes;  but  her  two  daughters  were 
still  "of  the  world's  people." 

"When  Lizzie  she  tole  me  about  it,  comin'  out  from 
Lancaster  after  market  this  morning,"  continued 
Amanda,  "she  was  now  that  tickled !  She  sayed  he  's 
such  a  good-looker!  Och,  I  wisht  he  was  stoppin' 
here;  ain't,  Tillie?  Lizzie  '11  think  herself  much, 
havin'  a  town  fellah  stoppin'  at  their  place." 

"If  he  's  stoppin'  at  Hershey 's,"  said  Rebecca,  ap- 
pearing suddenly,  "that  ain't  sayin'  he  has  to  get  in 
with  Lizzie  so  wonderful  thick !  I  hope  he  's  a  jolly 
fellah." 

Amanda  and  Rebecca  were  now  girls  of  seventeen 
and  eighteen  years— buxom,  rosy,  absolutely  unideal 
country  lasses.  Beside  them,  frail  little  Tillie  seemed 
a  creature  of  another  clay. 

"Lizzie  tole  me:  she  sayed  how  he  come  up  to  their 
market-stall  in  there  at  Lancaster  this  morning," 
Amanda  related,  "and  tole  her  he  'd  heard  Jonas  Her- 
shey's  pork-stall  at  market  was  where  he  could  mebbe 
find  out  a  place  he  could  board  at  in  New  Canaan 

148 


The  Harvard  graduate 

with  a  private  family — he  'd  sooner  live  with  a  pri- 
vate family  that  way  than  at  the  hotel.  Well,  Lizzie 
she  coaxed  her  pop  right  there  in  front  of  the  teacher 
to  say  they  'd  take  him,  and  Jonas  Hershey  he  sayed 
he  did  n't  care  any.  So  Lizzie  she  tole  him  then  he 
could  come  to  their  place,  and  he  sayed  he  'd  be  out 
this  after  in  the  four-o'clock  stage." 

"Well,  and  I  wonder  what  her  mother  has  to  say  to 
her  and  Jonas  fixin'  it  up  between  'em  to  take  a 
boarder  and  not  waitin'  to  ast  her!"  Aunty  Em  said. 
"I  guess  mebbe  Sister  Jennie  's  spited!" 

The  appellation  of  "sister"  indicated  no  other  rela- 
tion than  that  of  the  Mennonite  church  membership, 
Mrs.  Jonas  Hershey  being  also  a  New  Mennonite. 

"Now  don't  think  you  have  to  run  all  the  way  there 
and  back,  Tillie,"  was  her  aunt's  parting  injunction. 
"I  don't  time  you  like  what  your  pop  does!  Well. 
I  guess  not!  I  take  notice  you  're  always  out  of 
breath  when  you  come  back  from  an  urrand.  It  's 
early  yet — you  dare  stop  awhile  and  talk  to  Lizzie." 

Tillie  gave  her  aunt  a  look  of  grateful  affection  as 
she  left  the  house.  Often  when  she  longed  to  thank 
her  for  her  many  little  acts  of  kindness,  the  words 
would  not  come.  It  was  the  habit  of  her  life  to  repress 
every  emotion  of  her  mind,  whether  of  bitterness  or 
pleasure,  and  an  unconquerable  shyness  seized  upon 
her  in  any  least  attempt  to  reveal  herself  to  those  who 
were  good  to  her. 

It  was  four  o  'clock  on  a  beautiful  October  afternoon 
as  she  walked  up  the  village  street,  and  while  she  en- 
joyed, through  all  her  sensitive  maiden  soul,  the  sweet 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

sunshine  and  soft  autumn  coloring,  her  thought  dwelt 
with  a  pleasant  expectancy  on  her  almost  inevitable 
meeting  with  "the  Teacher,"  if  he  did  indeed  arrive 
in  the  stage  now  due  at  New  Canaan. 

Unlike  her  cousins  Amanda  and  Rebecca,  and  their 
neighbor  Lizzie  Hershey,  Tillie 's  eagerness  to  meet 
the  young  man  was  not  born  of  a  feminine  hunger 
for  romance.  Life  as  yet  had  not  revealed  those  emo- 
tions to  her  except  as  she  had  known  them  in  her 
love  for  Miss  Margaret — which  love  was  indeed  full 
of  a  sacred  sentiment.  It  was  only  because  the  teacher 
meant  an  aid  to  the  realization  of  her  ambition  to 
become  "educated"  that  she  was  interested  in  his 
coming. 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes'  walk  to  the  home  of 
Jonas  Hershey,  the  country  pork  butcher.  As  Tillie 
turned  in  at  the  gate,  she  heard,  with  a  leap  of  her 
heart,  the  distant  rumble  of  the  approaching  stage- 
coach. 

Jonas  Hershey 's  home  was  probably  the  cleanest, 
neatest-looking  red  brick  house  in  all  the  county.  The 
board-walk  from  the  gate  to  the  door  fairly  glistened 
from  the  effects  of  soap  and  water.  The  flower-beds, 
almost  painfully  neat  and  free  from  weeds,  were  laid 
out  on  a  strictly  mathematical  plan.  A  border  of 
whitewashed  clam-shells,  laid  side  by  side  with  mili- 
tary precision,  set  off  the  brilliant  reds  and  yellows 
of  the  flowers,  and  a  glance  at  them  was  like  gazing 
into  the  face  of  the  midday  sun.  Tillie  shaded  her 
dazzled  eyes  as  she  walked  across  the  garden  to  the 
side  door  which  opened  into  the  kitchen.  It  stood 

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The  Harvard  graduate 

open  and  she  stepped  in  without  ceremony.  For  & 
moment  she  could  see  nothing  but  red  and  yellow 
flowers  and  whitewashed  clam-shells.  But  as  her 
vision  cleared,  she  perceived  her  neighbor,  Lizzie 
Hershey,  a  well-built,  healthy-looking  country  lass  of 
eighteen  years,  cutting  bread  at  a  table,  and  her 
mother,  a  large  fat  woman  wearing  the  Mennonite 
dress,  standing  before  a  huge  kitchen  range,  stirring 
"ponhaus"  in  a  caldron. 

The  immaculate  neatness  of  the  large  kitchen  gave 
evidence,  as  did  garden,  board-walk,  and  front  porch, 
of  that  morbid  passion  for  "cleaning  up"  character- 
istic of  the  Dutch  housewife. 

Jonas  Hershey  did  a  very  large  and  lucrative  busi- 
ness, and  the  work  of  his  establishment  was  heavy. 
But  he  hired  no  "help"  and  his  wife  and  daughter 
worked  early  and  late  to  aid  him  in  earning  the  dol- 
lars which  he  hoarded. 

"Sister  Jennie!"  Tillie  accosted  Mrs.  Hershey  with 
the  New  Mennonite  formal  greeting,  "I  wish  you  the 
grace  and  peace  of  the  Lord." 

"The  same  to  you,  sister,"  Mrs.  Hershey  replied, 
bending  to  receive  Tillie's  kiss  as  the  girl  came  up  to 
her  at  the  stove— the  Mennonite  interpretation  of  the 
command,  "Salute  the  brethren  with  a  holy  kiss." 

"Well,  Lizzie,"  was  Tillie's  only  greeting  to  the 
girl  at  the  table.  Lizzie  was  not  a  member  of  meeting 
and  the  rules  forbade  the  members  to  kiss  those  who 
were  still  in  the  world. 

"Well,  Tillie,"  answered  Lizzie,  not  looking  up 
from  the  bread  she  was  cutting, 

'51 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Tillie  instantly  perceived  a  lack  of  cordiality.  Some- 
thing was  wrong.  Lizzie's  face  was  sullen  and  her 
mother's  countenance  looked  grim  and  determined. 
Tillie  wondered  whether  their  evident  ill-humor  were 
in  any  way  connected  with  herself,  or  whether  her 
Aunty  Era's  surmise  were  correct,  and  Sister  Jennie 
was  really  "spited." 

"I  've  come  to  get  two  pound  of  mush,"  she  said, 
remembering  her  errand. 

"It  's  all,"  Mrs.  Hershey  returned.  "We  solt  every 
cake  at  market,  and  no  more  's  made  yet.  It  was  all 
a 'ready  till  market  was  only  half  over." 

"Aunty  Em  '11  be  disappointed.  She  thought  she  'd 
make  fried  mush  for  supper,"  said  Tillie. 

"Have  you  strangers?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hershey. 

"No,  we  have  n't  anybody  for  supper,  unless  some 
come  on  the  stage  this  after.  We  had  four  for  din- 
ner." 

"Were  they  such  agents,  or  what?"  asked  Lizzie. 

Tillie  turned  to  her.  "Whether  they  were  agents? 
No,  they  were  just  pleasure-seekers.  They  were  out 
for  a  drive  and  stopped  off  to  eat. ' ' 

At  this  instant  the  rattling  old  stage-coach  drew  up 
at  the  gate. 

The  mother  and  daughter,  paying  no  heed  whatever 
to  the  sound,  went  on  with  their  work,  Mrs.  Hershey 
looking  a  shade  more  grimly  determined  as  she  stirred 
her  ponhaus  and  Lizzie  more  sulky. 

Tillie  had  just  time  to  wonder  whether  she  had 
better  slip  out  before  the  stranger  came  in,  when  a 
knock  on  the  open  kitchen  door  checked  her. 

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The  Harvard  graduate 

Neither  mother  nor  daughter  glanced  up  in  answer 
to  the  knock.  Mrs.  Hershey  resolutely  kept  her  eyes 
on  her  caldron  as  she  turned  her  big  spoon  about 
in  it,  and  Lizzie,  with  sullen,  averted  face,  industri- 
ously cut  her  loaf. 

A  second  knock,  followed  by  the  appearance  of  a 
good-looking,  well-dressed  young  man  on  the  thresh- 
old, met  with  the  same  reception.  Tillie,  in  the  back- 
ground, and  hidden  by  the  stove,  looked  on  wonder- 
ingly. 

The  young  man  glanced,  in  evident  mystification, 
at  the  woman  by  the  stove  and  at  the  girl  at  the  table, 
and  a  third  time  rapped  loudly. 

"  Good  afternoon ! "  he  said  pleasantly,  an  inquiring 
note  in  his  voice. 

Mrs.  Hershey  and  Lizzie  went  on  with  their  work  as 
though  they  had  not  heard  him. 

He  took  a  step  into  the  room,  removing  his  hat 
"You  were  expecting  me  this  afternoon,  were  n't 
you?"  he  asked. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  Lizzie  remarked  at  last. 

"  You  were  looking  for  me  ? "  he  repeated. 

Mrs.  Hershey  suddenly  turned  upon  Lizzie.  "  Why 
don't  you  speak?"  she  inquired  half -tauntingly. 
"  You  spoke  before" 

Tillie  realized  that  Sister  Jennie  must  be  referring 
to  Lizzie's  readiness  at  market  that  morning  to 
"  speak,"  in  making  her  agreement  with  the  young 
man  for  board. 

"You  spoke  this  morning,"  the  mother  repeated. 
"  Why  can't  you  speak  now  ? " 

'53 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Och,  why  don't  you  speak  yourself?"  retorted 
Lizzie.  "It  ain't  fur  me  to  speak!" 

The  stranger  appeared  to  recognize  that  he  was  the 
subject  of  a  domestic  unpleasantness. 

"You  find  it  inconvenient  to  take  me  to  board?"  he 
hesitatingly  inquired  of  Mrs.  Hershey.  "I  should  n't 
think  of  wishing  to  intrude.  There  is  a  hotel  in  the 
place,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.    There  is  a  hotel  in  New  Canaan." 

"I  can  get  board  there,  no  doubt?" 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Hershey  replied  argumentatively, 
"that  's  a  public  house  and  this  ain't.  We  never  made 
no  practice  of  takin'  boarders.  To  be  sure,  Jonas  he 
always  was  fur  boarders.  But  I  ain't  fur!" 

"Oh,  yes,"  gravely  nodded  the  young  man.  "Yes. 
I  see." 

He  picked  up  the  dress-suit  case  which  he  had  set 
on  the  sill.  "Where  is  the  hotel,  may  I  ask?" 

"Just  up  the  road  a  piece.  You  can  see  the  sign 
out,"  said  Mrs.  Hershey,  while  Lizzie  banged  the 
bread-box  shut  with  an  energy  forcibly  expressive  of 
her  feelings. 

"Thank  you,"  responded  the  gentleman,  a  pair  of 
keen,  bright  eyes  sweeping  Lizzie's  gloomy  face. 

He  bowed,  put  his  hat  on  his  head  and  stepped  out 
of  the  house. 

There  was  a  back  door  at  the  other  side  of  the 
kitchen.  Not  stopping  for  the  ceremony  of  leave-tak- 
ing, Tillie  slipped  out  of  it  to  hurry  home  before  the 
stranger  should  reach  the  hotel. 

Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she  hurried  across  fields  by 

154 


The  Harvard  graduate 

a  short-cut,  and  there  was  a  sparkle  of  excitement  in 
her  eyes.  Her  ears  were  tingling  with  sounds  to  which 
they  were  unaccustomed,  and  which  thrilled  them  ex- 
quisitely— the  speech,  accent,  and  tones  of  one  who 
belonged  to  that  world  unknown  to  her  except  through 
books — out  of  which  Miss  Margaret  had  come  and  to 
which  this  new  teacher,  she  at  once  recognized,  be- 
longed. Undoubtedly  he  was  what  was  called,  by 
magazine-  and  novel-writers,  a  "gentleman."  And 
it  was  suddenly  revealed  to  Tillie  that  in  real  life  the 
phenomenon  thus  named  was  even  more  interesting 
than  in  literature.  The  clean  cut  of  the  young  man's 
thin  face,  his  pale  forehead,  the  fineness  of  the  white 
hand  he  had  lifted  to  his  hat,  his  modulated  voice  and 
speech,  all  these  things  had,  in  her  few  minutes'  obser- 
vation of  him,  impressed  themselves  instantly  and 
deeply  upon  the  girl's  fresh  imagination. 

Out  of  breath  from  her  hurried  walk,  she  reached 
the  back  door  of  the  hotel  several  minutes  before  the 
teacher's  arrival.  She  had  just  time  to  report  to  her 
aunt  that  Sister  Jennie's  mush  was  "all,"  and  to  re- 
ply in  the  affirmative  to  the  eager  questions  of 
Amanda  and  Eebecca  as  to  whether  she  had  seen  the 
teacher,  when  the  sound  of  the  knocker  on  the  front 
door  arrested  their  further  catechism. 

"The  stage  did  n't  leave  out  whoever  it  is — it  drove 
right  apast,"  said  Aunty  Em.  "You  go,  Tillie,  and 
see  oncet  who  is  it." 

Tillie  was  sure  that  she  had  not  been  seen  by  the 
evicted  applicant  for  board,  as  she  had  been  hidden 
behind  the  stove.  This  impression  was  confirmed  when 

155 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

she  now  opened  the  door  to  him,  for  there  was  no 
recognition  in  his  eyes  as  he  lifted  his  hat.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  Tillie 's  life  that  a  man  had  taken  off 
his  hat  to  her,  and  it  almost  palsied  her  tongue  as  she 
tried  to  ask  him  to  come  in. 

In  reply  to  his  inquiry  as  to  whether  he  could  get 
board  here,  she  led  him  into  the  darkened  parlor  at 
the  right  of  a  long  hall.  Groping  her  way  across  the 
floor  to  the  window  she  drew  up  the  blind. 

"Just  sit  down,"  she  said  timidly.  "I  '11  call 
Aunty  Em." 

"Thank  you,"  he  Bowed  with  a  little  air  of  cere- 
mony that  for  an  instant  held  her  spellbound.  She 
stood  staring  at  him— only  recalled  to  herself  and  to 
a  sense  of  shame  for  her  rudeness  by  the  sudden  en- 
trance of  her  aunt. 

"How  d'  do?"  said  Mrs.  Wackernagel  in  her  brisk, 
businesslike  tone.  "D'  you  want  supper?" 

"I  am  the  applicant  for  the  New  Canaan  school.  I 
want  to  get  board  for  the  winter  here,  if  I  can— and 
in  case  I  'm  elected." 

"  Well,  I  say !  Tillie !  D' you  hear  that?  Why  us 
we  all  heard  you  was  goin'  to  Jonas  Hershey's." 

"They  decided  it  was  n't  convenient  to  take  me  and 
sent  me  here." 

' '  Now  think !  If  that  was  n  't  like  Sister  Jennie  yet ! 
All  right!"  she  announced  conclusively.  "We  can 
accommodate  you  to  satisfaction,  I  guess." 

"Have  you  any  other  boarders?"  the  young  man  in- 
quired. 

"No  reg'lar  boarders— except,  to  be  sure,  the  Doc; 

.56 


The  Harvard  graduate 

and  he  's  lived  with  us  it  's  comin'  fifteen  years,  I 
think,  or  how  long,  till  November  a 'ready.  It  's  just 
our  own  fam'ly  here  and  my  niece  where  helps  with 
the  work,  and  the  Doc.  We  have  a  many  to  meals 
though,  just  passing  through  that  way,  you  know.  We 
don't  often  have  more  'n  one  reg'lar  boarder  at  oncet, 
so  we  just  make  'em  at  home  still,  like  as  if  they  was 
one  of  us.  Now  you,"  she  hospitably  concluded, 
"we  '11  lay  in  our  best  bed.  We  don't  lay  'em  in  the 
best  bed  unless  they  're  some  clean-lookin'." 

Tillie  noticed  as  her  aunt  talked  that  while  the 
young  man  listened  with  evident  interest,  his  eyes 
moved  about  the  room,  taking  in  every  detail  of  it. 
To  Tillie 's  mind,  this  hotel  parlor  was  so  "pleasing 
to  the  eye"  as  to  constitute  one  of  those  Temptations 
of  the  Enemy  against  which  her  New  Mennonite  faith 
prescribed  most  rigid  discipline.  She  wondered  whe- 
ther the  stranger  did  not  think  it  very  handsome. 

The  arrangement  of  the  room  was  evidently,  like 
Jonas  Hershey's  flower-beds,  the  work  of  a  mathe- 
matical genius.  The  chairs  all  stood  with  their  stiff 
backs  squarely  against  the  wall,  the  same  number  fac- 
ing each  other  from  the  four  sides  of  the  apartment. 
Photographs  in  narrow  oval  frames,  six  or  eight, 
formed  another  oval,  all  equidistant  from  the  largest, 
which  occupied  the  dead  center,  not  only  of  this  group, 
but  of  the  wall  from  which  it  depended.  The  books 
on  the  square  oak  table,  which  stood  in  the  exact  mid- 
dle of  the  floor,  were  arranged  in  cubical  piles  in  the 
same  rigid  order.  Tillie  saw  the  new  teacher's  glance 
sweep  their  titles :  ' '  Touching  Incidents,  and  Remark- 

157 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

able  Answers  to  Prayer";  "From  Tannery  to  White 
House  " ;  "  Gems  of  Religious  Thought, ' '  by  Talmage ; 
"History  of  the  Galveston  Horror;  Illustrated"; 
"Platform  Echoes,  or  Living  Truths  for  Heart  and 
Head,"  by  John  B.  Gough. 

"Lemme  see — your  name  's  Fairchilds,  ain't?"  the 
landlady  abruptly  asked. 

"Yes,"  bowed  the  young  man. 

"Will  you,  now,  take  it  all  right  if  I  call  you  by 
your  Christian  name?  Us  Mennonites  daresent  call 
folks  Mr.  and  Mrs.  because  us  we  don't  favor  titles. 
What  's  your  first  name  now  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Fairchilds  considered  the  question  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  trying  to  remember.  "You  'd  better  call 
me  Pestalozzi,"  he  answered,  with  a  look  and  tone  of 
solemnity. 

"Pesky  Louzy!"  Mrs.  Wackernagel  exclaimed. 
"Well,  now  think!  That  's  a  name  where  ainrt  famil- 
iar 'round  here.  Is  it  after  some  of  your  folks?" 

"It  was  a  name  I  think  I  bore  in  a  previous  incar- 
nation as  a  teacher  of  youth,"  Fairchilds  gravely 
replied. 

Mrs.  Wackernagel  looked  blank.  "Tillie!"  she  ap- 
pealed to  her  niece,  who  had  shyly  stepped  half  behind 
her,  "do  you  know  right  what  he  means?" 

Tillie  dumbly  shook  her  head. 

"Pesky  Louzy!"  Mrs.  Wackernagel  experimented 
with  the  unfamiliar  name.  "Don't  it,  now,  beat  all! 
It  '11  take  me  awhile  till  I  'm  used  to  that  a 'ready. 
Mebbe  I  '11  just  call  you  Teacher;  ain't?" 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  expecting  an  answer. 

158 


"He  interposed  and  took  it  from  her." 


The  Harvard  graduate 

"Ain't?"  she  repeated  in  her  vigorous,  whole-souled 
way. 

"Eh— ain  't  what?  "  Fairchilds  asked,  puzzled. 

"Och,  I  just  mean,  say  not?  Can't  you  mebbe  talk 
English  wery  good?  We  had  such  a  foreigners  at 
this  hotel  a 'ready.  We  had  oncet  one,  he  was  from 
Phil  'delphy  and  he  did  n  't  know  what  we  meant  right 
when  we  sayed,  'The  butter  's  all  any  more.'  He  'd 
ast  like  you,  'All  what?'  Yes,  he  was  that  dumm! 
Och,  well,"  she  added  consolingly,  "people  can't  help 
fur  their  dispositions,  that  way ! ' ' 

"And  what  must  I  call  you?"  the  young  man  in- 
quired. 

"My  name  's  Wackernagel. " 

"Miss  or  Mrs.?" 

' '  Well,  I  guess  not  Miss  anyhow !  I  'm  the  mother 
of  four!" 

' '  Oh,  excuse  me !  " 

' '  Oh,  that  's  all  right ! ' '  responded  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel, amiably.  "Well,  I  must  go  make  supper  now. 
You  just  make  yourself  at  home  that  way." 

"May  I  go  to  my  room?" 

"Now?"  asked  Mrs.  Wackernagel,  incredulously. 
"Before  night?" 

"To  unpack  my  dress-suit  case,"  the  young  man 
explained.  "My  trunk  will  be  brought  out  to-morrow 
on  the  stage." 

"All  right.  If  you  want.  But  we  ain't  used  to 
goin'  up-stairs  in  the  daytime.  Tillie,  you  take  his 
satchel  and  show  him  up.  This  is  my  niece,  Tillie 
Getz." 

161 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Again  Mr.  Fairchilds  bowed  to  the  girl  as  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  fair  face  looking  out  from  her  white 
cap.  Tillie  bent  her  head  in  response,  then  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  suit  case.  But  he  interposed  and 
took  it  from  her  hands — and  the  touch  of  chivalry  in 
the  act  went  to  her  head  like  wine. 

She  led  the  way  up-stairs  to  the  close,  musty,  best 
ispare  bedroom. 


162 


XV 

THE  WACKERNAGELS  AT  HOME 

AT  the  supper-table,  the  apparently  inexhaustible 
JLJL  topic  of  talk  was  the  refusal  of  the  Hersheys  to 
receive  the  new  teacher  into  the  bosom  of  their  family. 
A  return  to  this  theme  again  and  again,  on  the  part 
of  the  various  members  of  the  Wackernagel  household, 
did  not  seem  to  lessen  its  interest  for  them,  though 
the  teacher  himself  did  not  take  a  very  animated  part 
in  its  discussion.  Tillie  realized,  as  with  an  absorbing 
interest  she  watched  his  fine  face,  that  all  he  saw  and 
heard  here  was  as  novel  to  him  as  the  world  whence 
he  had  come  would  be  to  her  and  her  kindred  and 
neighbors,  could  they  be  suddenly  transplanted  into 
it.  Tillie  had  never  looked  upon  any  human  coun- 
tenance which  seemed  to  express  so  much  of  that  ideal 
world  in  which  she  lived  her  real  life. 

' '  To  turn  him  off  after  he  got  there ! ' '  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel exclaimed,  reverting  for  the  third  time  to  the 
episode  which  had  so  excited  the  family.  "And  after 
Lizzie  and  Jonas  they  'd  sayed  he  could  come  yet ! " 

"Well,  I  say!"  Mr.  Wackernagel  shook  his  head,  as 
though  the  story,  even  at  its  third  recital,  were  full 
of  surprises. 

Mr.  Wackernagel  was  a  tall,  raw-boned  man  with 

163 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

conspicuously  large  feet  and  hands.  He  wore  his  hair 
plastered  back  from  his  face  in  a  unique,  not  to  say 
distinguished  style,  which  he  privately  considered 
highly  becoming  his  position  as  the  proprietor  of  the 
New  Canaan  Hotel.  Mr.  Wackernagel 's  self-satisfac- 
tion did  indeed  cover  every  detail  of  his  life— from  the 
elegant  fashion  of  his  hair  to  the  quality  of  the  whisky 
which  he  sold  over  the  bar,  and  of  which  he  never  tired 
of  boasting.  Not  only  was  he  entirely  pleased  with 
himself,  but  his  good-natured  satisfaction  included  all 
his  possessions — his  horse  first,  then  his  wife,  his  two 
daughters,  his  permanent  boarder,  "the  Doc,"  and 
his  wife's  niece  Tillie.  For  people  outside  his  own 
horizon,  he  had  a  tolerant  but  contemptuous  pity. 

Mr.  Wackernagel  and  the  doctor  both  sat  at  table  in 
their  shirt-sleeves,  the  proprietor  wearing  a  clean  white 
shirt  (his  extravagance  and  vanity  in  using  two  white 
shirts  a  week  being  one  of  the  chief  historical  facts 
of  the  village),  while  the  doctor  was  wont  to  appear 
in  a  brown  cotton  shirt,  the  appearance  of  which  sug- 
gested the  hostler  rather  than  the  physician. 

That  Fairchilds  should  "eat  in  his  coat"  placed 
him,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Wackernagels,  on  the  high 
social  plane  of  the  drummers  from  the  city,  many  of 
whom  yearly  visited  the  town  with  their  wares. 

"And  Teacher  he  did  n't  press  'em  none,  up  at 
Jonas  Hershey's,  to  take  him  in,  neither,  he  says," 
Mrs.  Wackernagel  pursued. 

"He  says?"  repeated  Mr.  Wackernagel,  inquir- 
ingly. "Well,  that  's  like  what  I  was,  too,  when  I 
was  a  young  man,"  he  boasted.  "If  I  thought  I  ain't 

.64 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

wanted  when  I  went  to  see  a  young  la,dy — if  she 
passed  any  insinyations— she  never  was  n't  worried 
with  me  ag'in!" 

"I  guess  Lizzie  's  spited  that  Teacher  's  stoppin' 
at  our  place,"  giggled  Rebecca,  her  pretty  face  rosy 
with  pleasurable  excitement  in  the  turn  affairs  had 
taken.  She  sat  directly  opposite  Mr.  Fairchilds,  while 
Amanda  had  the  chair  at  his  side. 

Tillie  could  see  that  the  young  man's  eyes  rested 
occasionally  upon  the  handsome,  womanly  form  of 
her  very  good-looking  cousin  Amanda.  Men  always 
looked  at  Amanda  a  great  deal,  Tillie  had  often  ob- 
served. The  fact  had  never  before  had  any  special 
significance  for  her. 

"Are  you  from  Lancaster,  or  wherever?"  the  doc- 
tor inquired  of  Mr.  Fairchilds. 

"From  Connecticut,"  he  replied  in  a  tone  that  inde- 
finably, but  unmistakably  checked  further  questioning. 

' '  Now  think !    So  fur  off  as  that ! ' ' 

"Yes,  ain't!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wackernagel.  "It  's 
a  wonder  a  body  'd  ever  be  contented  to  live  that  fur 
off." 

"We  're  had  strangers  here  in  this  hotel,'7  Mr. 
Wackernagel  began  to  brag,  while  he  industriously  ate 
of  his  fried  sausage  and  fried  potatoes,  "from  as  fur 
away  as  Illinois  yet !  And  from  as  fur  south  as  down 
in  Maine !  Yes,  indeed !  Ain  't,  mom  ? "  he  demanded 
of  his  wife. 

"Och,  yes,  many  's  the  strange  meals  I  cooked 
a 'ready  in  this  house.  One  week  I  cooked  forty 
strange  meals;  say  not,  Abe?"  she  returned. 

165 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

''Yes,  I  mind  of  that  week.  It  was  Mrs.  Johnson 
and  her  daughter  we  had  from  Illinois  and  Mrs.  Sny- 
der  from  Maine,"  Abe  explained  to  Mr.  Fairchilds. 
"And  them  Johnsons  stayed  the  whole  week." 

"They  stopped  here  while  Mr.  Johnson  went  over 
the  county  sellin '  milk-separators, ' '  added  Mrs.  Wack- 
ernagel. "And  Abe  he  was  in  Lancaster  that  week, 
and  the  Doc  he  was  over  to  East  Donegal,  and  there 
was  no  man  here  except  only  us  ladies !  Do  you  mind, 
Rebecca?" 

Rebecca  nodded,  her  mouth  too  full  for  utterance. 

"Mrs.  Johnson  she  looked  younger  than  her  own 
daughter  yet,"  Mrs.  Wackernagel  related,  with  anima- 
tion, innocent  of  any  suspicion  that  the  teacher  might 
not  find  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Johnson  as  absorbing  as 
she  found  it. 

"There  is  nothing  like  good  health  as  a  preserver  of 
youth,"  responded  Pairchilds. 

"JETotel-keepin'  did  n't  pay  till  we  got  the  license," 
Mr.  Wackernagel  chatted  confidentially  to  the 
stranger.  "Mom,  to  be  sure,  she  did  n't  favor  my 
havin'  a  bar,  because  she  belonged  to  meetin'.  But  I 
seen  I  could  n't  make  nothin'  if  I  did  n't.  It  was 
never  no  temptation  to  me— I  was  always  among 
the  whisky  and  I  never  got  tight  oncet.  And  it  ain't 
the  hard  work  farmin'  was.  I  had  to  give  up  fol- 
lowin'  farmin'.  I  got  it  so  in  my  leg.  Why,  some- 
times I  can't  hardly  walk  no  more." 

"And  can't  your  doctor  cure  you?"  Fairchilds 
asked,  with  a  curious  glance  at  the  unkempt  little  man 
across  the  table. 

1 66 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

"Och,  yes,  he  's  helped  me  a  heap  a 'ready.  Him 
he  's  as  good  a  doctor  as  any  they  're  got  in  Lancaster 
even!"  was  the  loyal  response.  "Here  a  couple 
months  back,  a  lady  over  in  East  Donegal  Township 
she  had  wrote  him  a  letter  over  here,  how  the  five  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  doses  where  he  give  her  daughter  done 
her  so  much  good,  and  she  was  that  grateful,  she  sayed 
she  just  felt  indebted  fur  a  letter  to  him !  Ain't,  Doe? 
She  sayed  now  her  daughter  's  engaged  to  be  married 
and  her  mind  's  more  settled — and  to  be  sure,  that 
made  somepin  too.  Yes,  she  sayed  her  gettin'  en- 
gaged done  her  near  as  much  good  as  the  five  differ- 
ent kind  of  doses  done  her." 

''Are  you  an  Allopath?"  Fairchilds  asked  the  doc- 
tor. 

"I  'ma  Eclectic,"  he  responded  glibly.  "And  do 
you  know,  Teacher,  I  'd  been  practisin '  that  there  style 
of  medicine  fur  near  twelve  years  before  I  knowed 
it  was  just  to  say  the  Eclectic  School,  you  under- 
stand." 

"Like  Moliere's  p  rose- writer !"  remarked  the 
teacher,  then  smiled  at  himself  for  making  such  an 
allusion  in  such  a  place. 

"Won't  you  have  some  more  sliced  radishes, 
Teacher?"  urged  the  hostess.  "I  made  a-plenty." 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  Fairchilds  replied,  with  his 
little  air  of  courtesy  that  so  impressed  the  whole 
family.  "I  can't  eat  radishes  in  the  evening  with 
impunity." 

"But  these  is  with  winegar,"  Mrs.  Wackernagel 
corrected  him. 

167 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Before  Mr.  Fairchilds  could  explain,  Mr.  Wack- 
ernagel  broke  in,  confirming  the  doctor's  proud 
claim. 

"Yes,  Doc  he  's  a  Eclectic,"  he  repeated,  evidently 
feeling  that  the  fact  reflected  credit  on  the  hotel. 
"You  can  see  his  sign  on  the  side  door." 

"I  was  always  interested  in  science,"  explained  the 
doctor,  under  the  manifest  impression  that  he  was  con- 
tinuing the  subject.  ' '  Phe-non-e-ma.  That  's  what 
I  like.  Odd  things.  I  'm  stuck  on  'em!  Now  this 
here  wireless  telegraphy.  I  'm  stuck  on  that,  you 
bet!  To  me  that  there  's  a  phe-non-e-ma. " 

"Teacher,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Wackernagel,  "you 
ain't  eatin'  hearty.  Leave  me  give  you  some  more 
sausage. ' ' 

"If  you  please,"  Mr.  Fairchilds  bowed  as  he  handed 
his  plate  to  her. 

"Why  don't  you  leave  him  help  hisself,"  protested 
Mr.  Wackernagel.  "He  won't  feel  to  make  hisself 
at  home  if  he  can't  help  hisself  like  as  if  he  was  one 
of  us  that  way. ' ' 

"Och,  well,"  confessed  Mrs.  Wackernagel,  "I  just 
keep  astin'  him  will  he  have  more,  so  I  can  hear  him 
speak  his  manners  so  nice. "  She  laughed  aloud  at  her 
own  vanity.  "You  took  notice  of  it  too,  Tillie,  ain't? 
You  can't  eat  fur  lookin'  at  him!" 

A  tide  of  color  swept  Tillie 's  face  as  the  teacher, 
with  a  look  of  amusement,  turned  his  eyes  toward  her 
end  of  the  table.  Her  glance  fell  upon  her  plate, 
and  she  applied  herself  to  cutting  up  her  untouched 


168 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

' '  Now,  there  's  Doc, ' '  remarked  Amanda,  critically, 
"he  's  got  good  manners,  but  he  don't  use  'em." 

"Och,"  said  the  doctor,  "it  ain't  worth  while  to 
trouble. ' ' 

' '  I  think  it  would  be  wonderful  nice,  Teacher, ' '  said 
Mrs.  Wackernagel,  "if  you  learnt  them  manners  you 
got  to  your  scholars  this  winter.  I  wisht  'Manda 
and  Eebecca  knowed  such  manners.  They  're  to  be 
your  scholars  this  winter." 

"Indeed?"  said  Fairchilds;  "are  they?" 

"'Manda  there,"  said  her  father,  "she  's  so  much 
fur  actin'  up  you  '11  have  to  keep  her  right  by  you 
to  keep  her  straight,  still." 

"That  's  where  I  shall  be  delighted  to  keep 
her,"  returned  Fairchilds,  gallantly,  and  Amanda 
laughed  boisterously  and  grew  several  shades 
rosier  as  she  looked  boldly  up  into  the  young  man's 
eyes. 

"Ain't  you  fresh  though!"  she  exclaimed  coquet- 
tishly. 

How  dared  they  all  make  so  free  with  this  wonder- 
ful young  man,  marveled  Tillie.  Why  did  n't  they 
realize,  as  she  did,  how  far  above  them  he  was?  She 
felt  almost  glad  that  in  his  little  attentions  to  Amanda 
and  Rebecca  he  had  scarcely  noticed  her  at  all ;  for  the 
bare  thought  of  talking  to  him  overwhelmed  her  with 
shyness. 

"Mind  Tillie!"  laughed  Mr.  Wackernagel,  sud- 
denly, "lookin'  scared  at  the  way  yous  are  all  talkin' 
up  to  Teacher!  Tillie  she  's  afraid  of  you,"  he 
explained  to  Mr.  Fairchilds.  "She  ain't  never  got 

169 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

her  tongue  with  her  when  there  's  strangers.  Ain't, 
Tillie?" 

Tillie 's  burning  face  was  bent  over  her  plate,  and 
she  did  not  attempt  to  answer.  Mr.  Fairchilds'  eyes 
rested  for  an  instant  on  the  delicate,  sensitive  counte- 
nance of  the  girl.  But  his  attention  was  diverted  by 
an  abrupt  exclamation  from  Mrs.  Wackernagel. 

"Oh,  Abe!"  she  suddenly  cried,  "you  ain't  tole 
Teacher  yet  about  the  Albright  sisters  astin'  you,  on 
market,  what  might  your  name  be !" 

The  tone  in  which  this  serious  omission  was  men- 
tioned indicated  that  it  was  an  anecdote  treasured 
among  the  family  archives. 

"Now,  I  would  mebbe  of  forgot  that!"  almost  in 
consternation  said  Mr.  Wackernagel.  "Well,"  he  be- 
gan, concentrating  his  attention  upon  the  teacher,  "it 
was  this  here  way.  The  two  Miss  Albrights  they  had 
bought  butter  off  of  us,  on  market,  for  twenty  years 
back  a 'ready,  and  all  that  time  we  did  n't  know  what 
was  their  name,  and  they  did  n't  know  ourn;  fur  all, 
I  often  says  to  mom,  'Now  I  wonder  what  's  the  name 
of  them  two  thin  little  women.'  Well,  you  see,  I  was 
always  a  wonderful  man  fur  my  jokes.  Yes,  I  was 
wery  fond  of  makin'  a  joke,  still.  So  here  one  day 
the  two  sisters  come  along  and  bought  their  butter, 
and  then  one  of  'em  she  says,  'Excuse  me,  but  here 
I  've  been  buyin'  butter  off  of  yous  fur  this  twenty 
years  back  a 'ready  and  I  ain't  never  heard  your 
name.  WTiat  might  your  name  be?'  Now  I  was  such 
a  man  fur  my  jokes,  still,  so  I  says  to  her" — Mr.  Wack- 
^rnagel's  whole  face  twinkled  with  amusement,  and 

IJO 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

his  shoulders  shook  with  laughter  as  he  contemplated 
the  joke  he  had  perpetrated — "I  says,  'Well,  it 
•might  be  Gener'l  Jackson'  " — laughter  again  choked 
his  utterance,  and  the  stout  form  of  Mrs.  Wackernagel 
also  was  convulsed  with  amusement,  while  Amanda 
and  Rebecca  giggled  appreciatively.  Tillie  and  the 
doctor  alone  remained  unaffected.  "  'It  might  be 
Gener'l  Jackson,'  I  says.  'But  it  ain't.  It  's  Abe 
"Wackernagel,'  I  says.  You  see,"  he  explained,  "she 
ast  me  what  might  my  name  be.— See?— and  I  says 
'It  might  be  Jackson' — might  be,  you  know,  because 
she  put  it  that  way,  what  might  it  be.  '  But  it  ain  't, ' 
I  says.  'It  's  Wackernagel.'  " 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wackernagel  and  their  daughters 
leaned  back  in  their  chairs  and  gave  themselves  up  to 
prolonged  and  exuberant  laughter,  in  which  the 
teacher  obligingly  joined  as  well  as  he  was  able. 

When  this  hilarity  had  subsided,  Mr.  Wackernagel 
turned  to  Mr.  Fairchilds  with  a  question.  "Are  you 
mebbe  feelin'  oneasy,  Teacher,  about  meetin'  the 
school  directors  to-night  ?  You  know  they  meet  here  in 
the  hotel  parlor  at  seven  o  'clock  to  take  a  look  at  you ; 
and  if  you  suit,  then  you  and  them  signs  the  agree- 
ment. ' ' 

"And  if  I  don't  suit?" 

' '  They  '11  turn  you  down  and  send  you  back  home ! ' ' 
promptly  answered  the  doctor.  "That  there  Board 
ain't  conferrin'  William  Penn  on  no  one  where  don't 
suit  'em  pretty  good !  They  're  a  wonderful  partic'lar 
Board!" 

Alter  supper  the  comely  Amanda  agreed  eagerly  to 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

the  teacher's  suggestion  that  she  go  with  him  for  a 
walk,  before  the  convening  of  the  School  Board  at 
seven  o'clock,  and  show  him  the  school-house,  as  he 
would  like  to  behold,  he  said,  "the  seat  of  learning" 
which,  if  the  Board  elected  him,  was  to  be  the  scene 
of  his  winter's  campaign. 

Amanda  improved  this  opportunity  to  add  her  word 
of  warning  to  that  of  the  doctor. 

"That  there  Board  's  awful  hard  to  suit,  still. 
Oncet  they  got  a  Millersville  Normal  out  here,  and 
when  she  come  to  sign  they  seen  she  was  near-sighted 
that  way,  and  Nathaniel  Puntz— he  's  a  director— he 
up  and  says  that  would  n't  suit  just  so  well,  and  they 
sent  her  back  home.  And  here  oncet  a  lady  come  out 
to  apply  and  she  should  have  sayed  [she  is  reported  to 
have  said]  she  was  afraid  New  Canaan  had  n't  no 
accommodations  good  enough  fur  her,  and  the  directors 
ast  her,  'Did  n't  most  of  our  Presidents  come  out  of 
log  cabins?'  So  they  would  n't  elect  her.  Now," 
concluded  Amanda,  "you  see!" 

"Thanks  for  your  warning.  Can  you  give  me  some 
pointers  ? ' ' 

"What  's  them  again?" 

"Well,  I  must  not  be  near-sighted,  for  one  thing, 
and  I  must  not  demand  'all  the  modern  improve- 
ments.' Tell  me  what  manner  of  man  this  School 
Board  loves  and  admires.  To  be  in  the  dark  as  to 
their  tastes,  you  know— 

"You  must  make  yourself  nice  and  common," 
Amanda  instructed  him.  "You  have  n't  dare  to  put 
on  no  city  airs.  To  be  sure,  I  guess  they  come  a  good 

I72 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

bit  natural  to  you,  and,  as  mom  says  still,  a  body 
can't  help  fur  their  dispositions;  but  our  directors 
is  all  plain  that  way  and  they  don't  like  tony  peo- 
ple that  wants  to  come  out  here  and  think  they  're 
much ! ' ' 

' '  Yes  ?    I  see.    Anything  else  ? ' ' 

"Well,  they  '11  be  partic'lar  about  your  bein'  a  per- 
f essor. ' ' 

' '  How  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

Amanda  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "If  you  're 
a  perf essor  or  no.  They  '11  be  sure  to  ast  you." 

Mr.  Fairchilds  thoughtfully  considered  it. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  light  coming  to  him,  "they 
will  ask  me  whether  I  am  a  professor  of  religion,  don't 
you  ? ' ' 

"Why,  to  be  sure!" 

"Oh!" 

"And  you  better  have  your  answer  ready." 

"What,  in  your  judgment,  may  I  ask,  would  be  a 
suitable  answer  to  that  ? ' ' 

"Well,  are  you  a  perf  essor?" 

"Oh,  I  'm  anything  at  all  that  will  get  me  this 
'job.'  I  've  got  to  have  it  as  a  makeshift  until  I  can 
get  hold  of  something  better.  Let  me  see — will  a 
Baptist  do?" 

"Are  you  a  Baptist?"  the  girl  stolidly  asked. 

"When  circumstances  are  pressing.  Will  they  be 
satisfied  with  a  Baptist  ? ' ' 

"That  's  one  of  the  fashionable  churches  of  the 
world,"  Amanda  replied  gravely.  "And  the  directors 
is  most  all  Mennonites  and  Amish  and  Dunkards.  All 

173 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

them  is  plain  churches  and  loosed  of  the  world,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  well,  I  '11  wriggle  out  somehow!  Trust  to 
luck !"  Fairchilds  dismissed  the  subject,  realizing  the 
injudiciousness  of  being  too  confidential  with  this  girl 
on  so  short  an  acquaintance. 

At  the  momentous  hour  of  seven,  the  directors 
promptly  assembled.  When  Tillie,  at  her  aunt's  re- 
quest, carried  two  kerosene  lamps  into  the  parlor,  a 
sudden  determination  came  to  the  girl  to  remain  and 
witness  the  reception  of  the  new  teacher  by  the  School 
Board. 

She  was  almost  sick  with  apprehension  lest  the 
Board  should  realize,  as  she  did,  that  this  Harvard 
graduate  was  too  fine  for  such  as  they.  It  was  an 
austere  Board,  hard  to  satisfy,  and  there  was  no- 
thing they  would  so  quickly  resent  and  reject  as  evi- 
dent superiority  in  an  applicant.  The  Normal  School 
students,  their  usual  candidates,  were  for  the  most 
part,  though  not  always,  what  was  called  in  the  neigh- 
borhood "nice  and  common."  The  New  Canaan 
Board  was  certainly  not  accustomed  to  sitting  in 
judgment  upon  an  applicant  such  as  this  Pestalozzi 
Fairchilds.  ( Tillie 's  religion  forbade  her  to  call  him 
by  the  vain  and  worldly  form  of  Mr.) 

No  one  noticed  the  pale-faced  girl  as,  after  placing 
one  lamp  on  the  marble-topped  table  about  which  the 
directors  sat  and  another  on  the  mantelpiece,  she 
moved  quietly  away  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  long, 
narrow  parlor  and  seated  herself  back  of  the  stove. 

The  applicant,  too,  when  he  came  into  the  room, 

174 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

was  too  much  taken  up  with  what  he  realized  to  be 
the  perils  of  his  case  to  observe  the  little  watcher, 
in  the  corner,  though  he  walked  past  her  so  close  that 
his  coat  brushed  her  shoulder,  sending  along  her 
nerves,  like  a  faint  electric  shock,  a  sensation  so  novel 
and  so  exquisite  that  it  made  her  suddenly  close  her 
eyes  to  steady  her  throbbing  head. 

There  were  present  six  members  of  the  Board— two 
Amishmen,  one  Old  Mennonite,  one  patriarchal-look- 
ing Dunkard,  one  New  Mennonite,  and  one  Evangel- 
ical, the  difference  in  their  religious  creeds  being  at- 
tested by  their  various  costumes  and  the  various 
cuts  of  beard  and  hair.  The  Evangelical,  the  New 
Mennonite,  and  the  Amishmen  were  farmers,  the  Dun- 
kard kept  the  store  and  the  post-office,  and  the  Old 
Mennonite  was  the  stage-driver.  Jacob  Getz  was  the 
Evangelical;  and  Nathaniel  Puntz,  Absalom's  father., 
the  New  Mennonite. 

The  investigation  of  the  applicant  was  opened  up 
by  the  president  of  the  Board,  a  long-haired  Amish- 
man,  whose  clothes  were  fastened  by  hooks  and  eyes 
instead  of  buttons  and  buttonholes,  these  latter  be- 
ing considered  by  his  sect  as  a  worldly  vanity. 

"What  was  your  experience  a 'ready  as  a  teacher  ?" 

Fairchilds  replied  that  he  had  never  had  any. 

Tillie's  heart  sank  as,  from  her  post  in  the  corner, 
she  heard  this  answer.  Would  the  members  think  for 
one  moment  of  paying  forty  dollars  a  month  to  a 
teacher  without  experience?  She  was  sure  they  had 
never  before  done  so.  They  were  shaking  their  heads 
gravely  over  it,  she  could  see. 

175 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

But  the  investigation  proceeded. 

"What  was  your  Persuasion  then?" 

Tillie  saw,  in  the  teacher's  hesitation,  that  he  did 
not  understand  the  question. 

"My  'Persuasion'?  Oh!  I  see.  You  mean  my 
Church?" 

"Yes,  what  's  your  conwictions ? " 

He  considered  a  moment.  Tillie  hung  breathlessly 
upon  his  answer.  She  knew  how  much  depended  upon 
it  with  this  Board  of  ' '  plain ' '  people.  Could  he  assure 
them  that  he  was  "a  Bible  Christian"?  Otherwise, 
they  would  never  elect  him  to  the  New  Canaan  school. 

He  gave  his  reply,  presently,  in  a  tone  suggesting 
his  having  at  that  moment  recalled  to  memory  just 
what  his  "Persuasion"  was.  "Let  me  see — yes — I  'm 
a  Truth-Seeker." 

"What  's  that  again?"  inquired  the  president,  with 
interest.  "I  have  not  heard  yet  of  that  Persuasion." 

"A  Truth- S eeker, "  he  gravely  explained,  "is  one 
who  believes  in — eh — in  a  progress  from  an  indefinite, 
incoherent  homogeneity  to  a  definite,  coherent  hetero- 
geneity. ' ' 

The  members  looked  at  each  other  cautiously. 

"Is  that  the  English  you  're  speakin',  or  what- 
ever?" asked  the  Dunkard  member.  "Some  of  them 
words  ain't  familiar  with  me  till  now,  and  I  don't 
knew  right  what  they  mean." 

"Yes,  I  'm  talking  English,"  nodded  the  applicant. 
"We  also  believe,"  he  added,  growing  bolder,  "in  the 
fundamental,  biogenetic  law  that  ontogenesis  is  an 
abridged  repetition  of  philogenesis. " 

176 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

''He  says  they  believe  in  Genesis,"  remarked  the 
Old  Mennonite,  appealing  for  aid,  with  bewildered 
eyes,  to  the  other  members. 

"Maybe  he  's  a  Jew  yet!"  put  in  Nathaniel  Puntz. 

"We  also  believe,"  Mr.  Fairchilds  continued,  be- 
ginning to  enjoy  himself,  "in  the  revelations  of 
science. ' ' 

"He  believes  in  Genesis  and  in  Revelations,"  ex- 
plained the  president  to  the  others. 

"Maybe  he  's  a  Cat  lie!"  suggested  the  suspicious 
Mr.  Puntz. 

"No,"  said  Fairchilds,  "I  am,  as  I  said,  a  Truth- 
Seeker.  A  Truth-Seeker  can  no  more  be  a  Catholic 
or  a  Jew  in  faith  than  an  Amishman  can,  or  a  Men- 
nonite, or  a  Brennivinarian. " 

Tillie  knew  he  was  trying  to  say  ' '  Winebrennarian, ' ' 
the  name  of  one  of  the  many  religious  sects  of  the 
county,  and  she  wondered  at  his  not  knowing  better. 

"You  ain't  a  gradyate,  neither,  are  you?"  was  the 
president's  next  question,  the  inscrutable  mystery  of 
the  applicant's  creed  being  for  the  moment  dropped. 

"Why,  yes,  I  thought  you  knew  that.  Of  Har- 
vard." 

"Och,  that!"  contemptuously;  "I  mean  you  ain't 
a  gradyate  of  Millersville  Normal?" 

"No,"  humbly  acknowledged  Fairchilds. 

"When  I  was  young,"  Mr.  Getz  irrelevantly  re- 
marked, "we  did  n't  have  no  gradyate  teachers  like 
what  they  have  now,  still.  But  we  anyhow  learnt  more 
according." 

"How  long  does  it  take  you  to  get  'em  from  a,  b,  c's 

i77 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

to  the  Testament?"  inquired  the  patriarchal  Dun- 
kard. 

"That  depends  upon  the  capacity  of  the  pupil,"  was 
Mr.  Fairchilds 's  profound  reply. 

''Can  you  learn  'em  'rithmetic  good?"  asked  Na- 
thaniel Puntz.  "I  got  a  son  his  last  teacher  could  n't 
learn  'rithmetic  to.  He  's  wonderful  dumm  in  'rith- 
metic, that  there  boy  is.  Absalom  by  name.  After  the 
grandfather.  His  teacher  tried  every  way  to  learn 
him  to  count  and  figger  good.  Pie  even  took  and 
spread  toothpicks  out  yet — but  that  did  n't  learn  him 
neither.  I  just  says,  he  ain't  appointed  to  learn  'rith- 
metic. Then  the  teacher  he  tried  him  with  such  a  Al- 
gebry.  But  Absalom  he  'd  get  so  mixed  up !— he 
couldn't  keep  them  x's  spotted." 

"I  have  a  method,"  Mr.  Fairchilds  began,  "which 
I  trust—" 

To  Tillie 's  distress,  her  aunt's  voice,  at  this  instant 
calling  her  to  "come  stir  the  sots  [yeast]  in,"  sum- 
moned her  to  the  kitchen. 

It  was  very  hard  to  have  to  obey.  She  longed  so  to 
stay  till  Fairchilds  should  come  safely  through  his 
fiery  ordeal.  For  a  moment  she  was  tempted  to  ignore 
the  summons,  but  her  conscience,  no  less  than  her 
grateful  affection  for  her  aunt,  made  such  behavior 
impossible.  Softly  she  stole  out  of  the  room  and 
noiselessly  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

A  half-hour  later,,  when  her  aunt  and  cousins  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  while  the  august  School  Board  still 
occupied  the  parlor,  Tillie  sat  sewing  in  the  sitting- 
room,  while  the  doctor,  at  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
nodded  over  his  newspaper. 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

Since  Tillie  had  come  to  live  at  the  hotel,  she  and  the 
doctor  were  often  together  in  the  evening ;  the  Doc  was 
fond  of  a  chat  over  his  pipe  with  the  child  whom  he 
so  helped  and  befriended  in  her  secret  struggles  to 
educate  herself.  There  was,  of  course,  a  strong  bond 
of  sympathy  and  friendship  between  them  in  their 
common  conspiracy  with  Miss  Margaret,  whom  the 
doctor  had  never  ceased  to  hold  in  tender  memory. 

Just  now  Tillie 's  ears  were  strained  to  catch  the 
sounds  of  the  adjourning  of  the  Board.  When  at  last 
she  heard  their  shuffling  footsteps  in  the  hall,  her 
heart  beat  fast  with  suspense.  A  moment  more  and 
the  door  leading  from  the  parlor  opened  and  Fair- 
childs  came  out  into  the  sitting-room. 

Tillie  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  her  sewing,  but  the 
room  seemed  suddenly  filled  with  his  presence. 

"Well!"  the  doctor  roused  himself  to  greet  the 
young  man ;  ' '  were  you  'lected  ? ' ' 

Breathlessly,  Tillie  waited  to  hear  his  answer. 

' '  Oh,  yes ;  I  've  escaped  alive ! ' '  Fairchilds  leaned 
against  the  table  in  an  attitude  of  utter  relaxation. 
' '  They  roasted  me  brown,  though !  Galileo  at  Rome, 
and  Martin  Luther  at  Worms,  had  a  dead  easy  time 
compared  to  what  I  've  been  through ! ' ' 

"I  guess!"  the  doctor  laughed.    "Ain't!" 

"I  'm  going  to  bed,"  the  teacher  announced  in  a 
tone  of  collapse.  ' '  Good  night ! ' ' 

"Good  night!"  answered  the  doctor,  cordially. 

Fairchilds  drew  himself  up  from  the  table  and  took 
a  step  toward  the  stairway;  this  brought  him  to  Til- 
lie's  side  of  the  table,  and  he  paused  a  moment  and 
looked  down  upon  her  as  she  sewed. 

I79 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Her  fingers  trembled,  and  the  pulse  in  her  throat 
beat  suffocatingly;  but  she  did  not  look  up. 

"Good  night,  Miss— Tillie,  is  n't  it?" 

"Matilda  Maria,"  Tillie 's  soft,  shy  voice  replied  as 
her  eyes,  full  of  light,  were  raised,  for  an  instant,  to 
the  face  above  her. 

The  man  smiled  and  bowed  his  acknowledgment ; 
then,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  he  said,  "Pardon 
me:  the  uniform  you  and  Mrs.  Wackernagel  wear— • 
may  I  ask  what  it  is?" 

' '  '  Uniform '  ? "  breathed  Tillie,  wonderingly.  ' '  Oh, 
you  mean  the  garb?  We  are  members  of  meeting. 
The  world  calls  us  New  Mennonites." 

"And  this  is  the  uni — the  garb  of  the  New  Men- 
nonites?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  It  is  a  very  becoming  garb,  certainly, ' '  Fairchilds 
smiled,  gazing  down  upon  the  fair  young  girl  with 
a  puzzled  look  in  his  own  face,  for  he  recognized, 
not  only  in  her  delicate  features,  and  in  the  light  of 
her  beautiful  eyes,  but  also  in  her  speech,  a  something 
that  set  her  apart  from  the  rest  of  this  household. 

Tillie  colored  deeply  at  his  words,  and  the  doctor 
laughed  outright. 

"By  gum!  They  wear  the  garb  to  make  'em  look 
-uwbecomin ' !  And  he  ups  and  tells  her  it  's  becom- 
in '  yet !  That  's  a  choke,  Teacher !  One  on  you, 
ain't?  That  there  cap  's  to  hide  the  hair  which  is 
a  pride  to  the  sek !  And  that  cape  over  the  bust  is  to 
hide  woman's  allurin'  figger.  See?  And  you  ups 
and  tells  her  it  's  a  becomin'  unyform!  Unyforms 

180 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

is  what  New  Mennonites  don't  uphold  to!  Them  's 
fur  Cat 'lies  and  Tiscopals— and  fur  warriors— and 
the  Mennonites  don't  favor  war!  Unyforms  yet!" 
he  laughed.  ' '  I  'm  swanged  if  that  don 't  tickle  me ! ' ' 

"I  stand  corrected.  I  beg  pardon  if  I  've  of- 
fended," Fairchilds  said  hastily.  "Miss — Matilda — 
I  hope  I  've  not  hurt  your  feelings?  Believe  me,  I 
did  not  mean  to." 

"Och!"  the  doctor  answered  for  her,  "Tillie  she 
ain't  so  easy  hurt  to  her  feelin's,  are  you,  Tillie? 
Gosh,  Teacher,  them  manners  you  got  must  keep  you 
busy!  Well,  sometimes  I  think  I  'm  better  off  if  I 
stay  common.  Then  I  don't  have  to  bother." 

The  door  leading  from  the  bar-room  opened  sud- 
denly and  Jacob  Getz  stood  on  the  threshold. 

' '  Well,  Tillie, ' '  he  said  by  way  of  greeting.  ' '  Uncle 
Abe  sayed  you  was  n't  went  to  bed  yet,  so  I  stopped 
to  see  you  a  minute." 

"Well,  father,"  Tillie  answered  as  she  put  down 
her  sewing  and  came  up  to  him. 

Awkwardly  he  bent  to  kiss  her,  and  Tillie,  even  in 
her  emotional  excitement,  realized,  with  a  passing 
wonder,  that  he  appeared  glad  to  see  her  after  a  week 
of  separation. 

"It  's  been  some  lonesome,  havin'  you  away,"  he 
told  her. 

' '  Is  everybody  well  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Yes,  middlin'.  You  was  sewin',  was  you?"  he  in- 
quired, glancing  at  the  work  on  the  table. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All  right.    Don't  waste  your  time.    Next  Satur- 

181 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

day  I  '11  stop  off  after  market  on  my  way  out  from 
Lancaster  and  see  you  oncet,  and  get  your  wages  off 
of  Aunty  Em." 

"Yes,  sir." 

A  vague  idea  of  something  unusual  in  the  light  of 
Tillie 's  eyes  arrested  him.  He  glanced  suspiciously 
at  the  doctor,  who  was  speaking  in  a  low  tone  to  the 
teacher. 

"Look-ahere,  Tillie.  If  Teacher  there  wants  to 
keep  comp'ny  with  one  of  yous  girls,  it  ain't  to  be 
you,  mind.  He  ain  't  to  be  makin '  up  to  you !  I 
don't  want  you  to  waste  your  time  that  there  way." 

Apprehensively,  Tillie  darted  a  sidelong  glance  at 
the  teacher  to  see  if  he  had  heard— for  though  no 
tender  sentiment  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  the 
idea  of  "keeping  company,"  yet  intuitively  she  felt 
the  unseemliness  of  her  father's  warning  and  its  ab- 
surdity in  the  eyes  of  such  as  this  stranger. 

Mr.  Fairchilds  was  leaning  against  the  table,  his 
arms  folded,  his  lips  compressed  and  his  face  flushed. 
She  was  sure  that  he  had  overheard  her  father.  Was 
he  angry,  or— almost  worse— did  that  compressed 
mouth  mean  concealed  amusement? 

"Well,  now,  I  must  be  goin',"  said  Mr.  Getz.  "Be 
a  good  girl,  mind.  Och,  I  'most  forgot  to  tell  you. 
Me  and  your  mom  's  conceited  we  'd  drive  up  to 
Puntz's  Sunday  afternoon  after  the  dinner  work  's 
through  a 'ready.  And  if  Aunty  Em  don't  want  you 
partic'lar,  you  're  to  come  home  and  mind  the  chil- 
dern,  do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

182 


The  Wackernagels  at  home 

"Now,  don't  forget.    Well,  good-by,  then." 

Again  he  bent  to  kiss  her,  and  Tillie  felt  Fair- 
childs's  eyes  upon  her,  as  unresponsively  she  sub- 
mitted to  the  caress. 

"Good  night  to  you,  Teacher."  Mr.  Getz  gruffly 
raised  his  voice  to  speak  to  the  pair  by  the  table. 
"And  to  you,  Doc." 

They  answered  him  and  he  went  away.  When  Til- 
lie  slowly  turned  back  to  the  table,  the  teacher  hastily 
took  his  leave  and  moved  away  to  the  stairway  at  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  As  she  took  up  her  sewing, 
she  heard  him  mount  the  steps  and  presently  close 
and  lock  the  door  of  his  room  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

"He  was,  now,  wonderful  surprised,  Tillie,"  the 
doctor  confided  to  her,  "when  I  tole  him  Jake  Getz 
was  your  pop.  He  don't  think  your  pop  takes  after 
you  any.  I  says  to  him,  '  Tillie 's  pop,  there,  bein'  one 
of  your  bosses,  you  better  make  up  to  Tillie,'  I  says, 
and  he  sayed,  'You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  that  Mr. 
Getz  of  the  School  Board  is  the  father  of  this  girl?' 
'That  's  what,'  I  says.  'He  's  that  much  her  father,' 
I  says,  'that  you  'd  better  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
him  by  makin'  up  to  Tillie,'  I  says,  just  to  plague 
him.  And  just  then  your  pop  up  and  sayed  if 
Teacher  wanted  to  keep  comp'ny  he  must  pick  out 
'Manda  or  Rebecca— and  I  seen  Teacher  wanted  to 
laugh,  but  his  manners  would  n't  leave  him.  He 
certainly  has,  now,  a  lot  of  manners,  ain't,  Tillie?" 

Tillie 's  head  was  bent  over  her  sewing  and  she 
did  not  answer. 

183 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

The  doctor  yawned,  stretched  himself,  and  guessed 
he  would  step  into  the  bar-room. 

Tillie  bent  over  her  sewing  for  a  long  time  after 
she  was  left  alone.  The  music  of  the  young  man's 
grave  voice  as  he  had  spoken  her  name  and  called  her 
"Miss  Matilda"  sang  in  her  brain.  The  fascination 
of  his  smile  as  he  had  looked  down  into  her  eyes, 
and  the  charm  of  his  chivalrous  courtesy,  so  novel  to 
her  experience,  haunted  and  intoxicated  her.  And  to- 
night, Tillie  felt  her  soul  flooded  with  a  life  and  light 
so  new  and  strange  that  she  trembled  as  before  a 
miracle. 

Meanwhile,  Walter  Fairchilds,  alone  in  his  room, 
his  mind  too  full  of  the  events  and  characters  to 
which  the  past  day  had  introduced  him  to  admit  of 
sleep,  was  picturing,  with  mingled  amusement  and  re- 
gret, the  genuine  horror  of  his  fastidious  relatives 
could  they  know  of  his  present  environment,  among 
people  for  whom  their  vocabulary  had  but  one  word— 
a  word  which  would  have  consigned  them  all,  even 
that  sweet-voiced,  clear-eyed  little  Puritan,  Matilda 
Maria,  to  outer  darkness;  and  that  he,  their  adopted 
son  and  brother,  should  be  breaking  bread  and  living 
on  a  footing  of  perfect  equality  with  these  villagers 
he  knew  would  have  been,  in  their  eyes,  an  offense 
only  second  in  heinousness  to  that  of  his  apostasy. 


184 


XVI 

THE  WACKERNAGELS  "CONWERSE** 

fllHE  next  day,  being  the  Sabbath,  brought  to  Til- 
JL  lie  two  of  the  keenest  temptations  she  had  ever 
known.  In  the  first  place,  she  did  not  want  to  obey 
her  father  and  go  home  after  dinner  to  take  care  of 
the  children.  All  in  a  day  the  hotel  had  become  to 
her  the  one  haven  where  she  would  be,  outside  of 
which  the  sun  did  not  shine. 

True,  by  going  home  she  might  hope  to  escape  the 
objectionable  Sunday  evening  sitting-up  with  Absalom; 
for  in  spite  of  the  note  she  had  sent  him,  telling  him  of 
her  father's  wish  that  he  must  not  come  to  see  her  at 
the  hotel,  she  was  unhappily  sure  that  he  would  ap- 
pear as  usual.  Indeed,  with  his  characteristic  dog- 
ged persistency,  he  was  pretty  certain  to  follow  her, 
whithersoever  she  went.  And  even  if  he  did  not,  it 
would  be  easier  to  endure  the  slow  torture  of  his  end- 
less visit  under  this  roof,  which  sheltered  also  that 
other  presence,  than  to  lose  one  hour  away  from  its 
wonderful  and  mysterious  charm. 

"Now,  look  here,  Tillie,"  said  Aunty  Em,  at  the 
breakfast-table,  "you  worked  hard  this  week,  and  this 
after  you  're  restin' — leastways,  unless  you  want  to 
go  home  and  take  care  of  all  them  litter  of  childern. 

185 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

If  you  don't  want  to  go,  you  just  stay— and  I  'II  take 
the  blame!  I  '11  say  I  needed  you." 

"Let  Jake  Getz  come  'round  here  tryin'  to  bully 
you,  Tillie,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wackernagel,  "and  it 
won't  take  me  a  week  to  tell  him  what  I  think  of 
him!  I  don't  owe  him  no  thin' !" 

"No,"  agreed  Jake  Getz's  sister,  "we  don't  live  off 
of  him ! ' ' 

"And  I  don't  care  who  fetches  him  neither!"  added 
Mr.  Wackernagel— which  expression  of  contempt  was 
one  of  the  most  scathing  known  to  the  tongue  of  a 
Pennsylvania  Dutchman. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do,  Tillie?"  Amanda  asked. 
"Are  you  goin'  or  stayin'?" 

Tillie  wavered  a  moment  between  duty  and  inclina- 
tion ;  between  the  habit  of  servility  to  her  father  and 
the  magic  power  that  held  her  in  its  fascinating  spell 
here  under  her  uncle's  roof. 

"I  'm  staying,"  she  faltered. 

"Good  fur  you,  Tillie!"  laughed  her  uncle. 
"You  're  gettin'  learnt  here  to  take  your  own  head 
a  little  fur  things.  Well,  I  'd  like  to  get  you  spoilt 
good  fur  your  pop — that  's  what  I  'd  like  to  do !" 

"We  darsent  go  too  fur,"  warned  Aunty  Em,  "or 
he  won't  leave  her  stay  with  us  at  all." 

"Now  there  's  you,  Abe,"  remarked  the  doctor, 
dryly;  "from  the  time  your  childern  could  walk  and 
talk  a 'ready  all  you  had  to  say  was  'Go' — and  they 
stayed.  Ain't?" 

Mr.  Wackernagel  joined  in  the  loud  laughter  of  his 
wife  and  daughters. 

186 


The  Wackernagels  "conwerse" 

Tillie  realized  that  the  teacher,  as  he  sipped  his 
coffee,  was  listening  to  the  dialogue  with  astonishment 
and  curiosity,  and  she  hungered  to  know  all  that  was 
passing  through  his  mind. 

Her  second  temptation  came  to  her  upon  hearing 
Fairchilds,  as  they  rose  from  the  breakfast-table, 
suggest  a  walk  in  the  woods  with  Amanda  and 
Eebecca. 

"And  won't  Miss  Tillie  go  too?"  he  inquired. 

Her  aunt  answered  for  her.  "Och,  she  would  n't 
have  dare,  her  bein'  a  member,  you  know.  It  would 
be  breakin'  the  Sabbath.  And  anyways,  even  if  it 
was  n't  Sunday,  us  New  Mennonites  don't  take  walks 
or  do  anything  just  fur  pleasure  when  they  ain't  no- 
thin'  useful  in  it.  If  Tillie  went,  I  'd  have  to  report 
her  to  the  meetin',  even  if  it  did  go  ag'in'  me  to 
do  it." 

''And  then  what  would  happen?"  Mr.  Fairchilds 
inquired  curiously. 

''She  'd  be  set  back." 

"'Setback'?" 

"She  would  n't  have  dare  to  greet  the  sisters  with 
a  kiss,  and  she  could  n't  speak  with  me  or  eat  with 
me  or  any  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  till  she  gave 
herself  up  ag'in  and  obeyed  to  the  rules." 

"This  is  very  interesting,"  commented  Fairchilds, 
his  contemplative  gaze  moving  from  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Wackernagel  to  Tillie.  "But,"  he  questioned,  "Mrs. 
Wackernagel,  why  are  your  daughters  allowed  to  do 
what  you  think  wrong  and  would  not  do?" 

"Well,"  began  Aunty  Em,   entering  with  relish 

"'87 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

into  the  discussion,  for  she  was  strong  in  theology, 
"we  don't  hold  to  forcin'  our  childern  or  interferin' 
with  the  free  work  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  bringin'  souls 
to  the  truth.  We  don't  do  like  them  fashionable 
churches  of  the  world  where  teaches  their  childern  to 
say  their  prayers  and  makes  'em  read  the  Bible  and 
go  to  Sunday-school.  We  don't  uphold  to  Sunday- 
schools.  You  can 't  read  nothin '  in  the  Scripture  about 
Sunday-schools.  We  hold  everybody  must  come  by 
their  free  will,  and  learnt  only  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
into  the  light  of  the  One  True  Way." 

Fairchilds  gravely  thanked  her  for  her  explanation 
and  pursued  the  subject  no  further. 

When  Tillie  presently  saw  him  start  out  with  her 
cousins,  an  unregenerate  longing  filled  her  soul  to  stay 
away  from  meeting  and  go  with  them,  to  spend  this 
holy  Sabbath  day  in  worshiping,  not  her  God,  but 
this  most  god-like  being  who  had  come  like  the  opening 
up  of  heaven  into  her  simple,  uneventful  life.  In  her 
struggle  with  her  conscience  to  crush  such  sinful  de- 
sires, Tillie  felt  that  now,  for  the  first  time,  she  un- 
derstood how  Jacob  of  old  had  wrestled  with  the 
Angel. 

Her  spiritual  struggle  was  not  ended  by  her  going 
dutifully  to  meeting  with  her  aunt.  During  all  the 
long  services  of  the  morning  she  fought  with  her  wan- 
dering attention  to  keep  it  upon  the  sacred  words  that 
were  spoken  and  sung.  But  her  thoughts  would  not 
be  controlled.  Straying  like  a  wicked  imp  into  for- 
bidden paths,  her  fancy  followed  the  envied  ones  into 
the  soft,  cool  shadows  of  the  autumn  woods  and  along 


The  Wackernagels  "conwerse" 

the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Conestoga,  and  mingling 
with  the  gentle  murmuring  of  the  leaves  and  the  rip- 
pling of  the  water,  she  heard  that  resonant  voice, 
so  unlike  any  voice  she  had  ever  heard  before,  and 
that  little  abrupt  laugh  with  its  odd  falsetto  note, 
which  haunted  her  like  a  strain  of  music;  and  she 
saw,  in  the  sunlight  of  the  lovely  October  morn- 
ing, against  a  background  of  gold  and  brown 
leaves  and  silver  water,  the  finely  chiseled  face, 
the  thoughtful,  pale  forehead,  the  kind  eyes,  the 
capable  white  hands,  of  this  most  wonderful  young 
man. 

Tillie  well  understood  that  could  the  brethren  and 
sisters  know  in  what  a  worldly  frame  of  mind  she  sat 
in  the  house  of  God  this  day,  undoubtedly  they  would 
present  her  case  for  "discipline,"  and  even,  perhaps, 
"set  her  back."  But  all  the  while  that  she  tried  to 
fight  back  the  enemy  of  her  soul,  who  thus  subtly  beset 
her  with  temptation  to  sin,  she  felt  the  utter  useless- 
ness  of  her  struggle  with  herself.  For  even  when  she 
did  succeed  in  forcing  her  attention  upon  some  of  the 
hymns,  it  was  in  whimsical  and  persistent  terms  of 
the  teacher  that  she  considered  them.  How  was  it 
possible,  she  wondered,  for  him,  or  any  unconverted 
soul,  to  hear,  without  being  moved  to  "give  him- 
self up,"  such  lines  as  these: 

"He  washed  them  all  to  make  them  clean, 
But  Judas  still  was  full  of  sin. 
May  none  of  us,  like  Judas,  sell 
Our  Lord  for  gold,  and  go  to  hell!'* 

189 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

And  these: 

"O  man,  remember,  thou  must  die ; 
The  sentence  is  for  you  and  I. 
Where  shall  we  be,  or  will  we  go, 
When  we  must  leave  this  world  below  ? ' ' 

In  the  same  moment  that  Tillie  was  wondering  how 
a  "Truth-Seeker"  would  feel  under  these  searching 
words,  she  felt  herself  condemned  by  them  for  her 
wandering  attention. 

The  young  girl's  feelings  toward  the  stranger  at 
this  present  stage  of  their  evolution  were  not,  like 
those  of  Amanda  and  Rebecca,  the  mere  instinctive 
feminine  craving  for  masculine  admiration.  She  did 
not  think  of  herself  in  relation  to  him  at  all.  A  great 
hunger  possessed  her  to  know  him — all  his  thoughts, 
his  emotions,  the  depths  and  the  heights  of  him;  she 
did  not  long,  or  even  wish,  that  he  might  know  and  ad- 
mire her. 

The  three-mile  drive  home  from  church  seemed  to 
Tillie,  sitting  in  the  high,  old-fashioned  buggy  at  her 
aunt's  side,  an  endless  journey.  Never  had  old  Dolly 
traveled  so  deliberately  or  with  more  frequent  dead 
stops  in  the  road  to  meditate  upon  her  long-past  youth. 
Mrs.  Wackernagel's  ineffectual  slaps  of  the  reins  upon 
the  back  of  the  decrepit  animal  inspired  in  Tillie  an 
inhuman  longing  to  seize  the  whip  and  lash  the  fee- 
ble beast  into  a  swift  pace.  The  girl  felt  appalled 
at  her  own  feelings,  so  novel  and  inexplicable  they 
seemed  to  her.  Whether  there  was  more  of  ecstasy 
or  torture  in  them,  she  hardly  knew. 

190 


The  Wackernagels  "conwerse" 

Immediately  after  dinner  the  teacher  went  out  and 
did  not  turn  up  again  until  evening,  when  he  retired 
immediately  to  the  seclusion  of  his  own  room. 

The  mystification  of  the  family  at  this  unaccount- 
ably unsocial  behavior,  their  curiosity  as  to  where  he 
had  been,  their  suspense  as  to  what  he  did  when  alone 
so  long  in  his  bedroom,  reached  a  tension  that  was 
painful. 

Promptly  at  half-past  six,  Absalom,  clad  in  his 
Sunday  suit,  appeared  at  the  hotel,  to  perform  his 
weekly  stint  of  sitting-tip. 

As  Rebecca  always  occupied  the  parlor  on  Sunday 
evening  with  her  gentleman  friend,  there  was  only  left 
to  Absalom  and  Tillie  to  sit  either  in  the  kitchen  or 
with  the  assembled  family  in  the  sitting-room.  Til- 
lie  preferred  the  latter.  Of  course  she  knew  that  such 
respite  as  the  presence  of  the  family  gave  her  was  only 
temporary,  for  in  friendly  consideration  of  what  were 
supposed  to  be  her  feelings  in  the  matter,  they  would 
all  retire  early.  Absalom  also  knowing  this,  accepted 
the  brief  inconvenience  of  their  presence  without  any 
marked  restiveness. 

"Say,  Absalom,"  inquired  the  doctor,  as  the  young 
man  took  up  his  post  on  the  settee  beside  Tillie,  sit- 
ting as  close  to  her  as  he  could  without  pushing  her 
off,  "how  did  your  pop  pass  his  opinion  about  the 
new  teacher  after  the  Board  meeting  Saturday,  heh  ? '  ' 

The  doctor  was  lounging  in  his  own  special  chair 
by  the  table,  his  fat  legs  crossed  and  his  thumbs 
thrust  into  his  vest  arms.  Amanda  idly  rocked  back 
and  forth  in  a  large  luridly  painted  rocking-chair  by 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

the  window,  and  Mrs.  Waekernagel  sat  by  the  table 
before  an  open  Bible  in  which  she  was  not  too  much 
absorbed  to  join  occasionally  in  the  general  conver- 
sation. 

"He  sayed  he  was  afraid  he  was  some  tony,"  an- 
swered Absalom.  "And,"  he  added,  a  reflection  in 
his  tone  of  his  father's  suspicious  attitude  on  Satur- 
day night  toward  Fairchilds,  "pop  sayed  he  could  n't 
make  out  what  was  his  conwictions.  He  could  n  't  even 
tell  right  was  he  a  Bible  Christian  or  no." 

"He  certainly  does,  now,  have  pecooliar  views," 
agreed  the  doctor.  ' '  I  was  talkin '  to  him  this  after — ' ' 

"You  was!"  exclaimed  Amanda,  a  note  of  chagrin 
in  her  voice.  "Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  where  at? 
"Where  had  he  took  himself  to?" 

"Up  to  the  woods  there  by  the  old  mill.  I  come  on 
him  there  at  five  o'clock — lay  in'  readin'  and  musin' — 
when  I  was  takin '  a  short  cut  home  through  the  woods 
comin'  from  Adam  Oberholzer 's. " 

* '  Well  I  never ! ' '  cried  Amanda.  ' '  And  was  he  out 
there  all  by  hisself  the  whole  afternoon?"  she  asked 
incredulously. 

"So  much  as  I  know.  Ain't  he,  now,  a  queer  feller 
not  to  want  a  girl  along  when  one  was  so  handy?" 
teased  the  doctor. 

"Well,"  retorted  Amanda,  "I  think  he  's  hard  up 
— to  be  spendin'  a  whole  afternoon  readin'!" 

"Oh,  Doc!"  Tillie  leaned  forward  and  whispered, 
"he  's  up  in  his  room  and  perhaps  he  can  hear  us 
through  the  register!" 

"I  wisht  he  kin,"  declared  Amanda,  "if  it  would 

192 


The  Wackernagels  "conwerse" 

learn  him  how  dumm  us  folks  thinks  a  feller 
where  spends  a  whole  Sunday  afternoon  by  hisself 
readin'l" 

''Why,   yes,"  put  in  Mrs.   "Wackernagel ;   "what 
would  a  body  be  wantin'  to  waste  time  like  that  fur? 
— when  he  could  of  spent  his  nice  afternoon  settin'  • 
there  on  the  porch  with  us  all,  conwersin'." 

"And  he  's  at  it  ag'in  this  evenin',  up  there  in 
his  room,"  the  doctor  informed  them.  "I  went  up  to 
give  him  my  lamp,  and  I  'HI  swanged  if  he  ain't  got 
a  many  books  and  such  pamp'lets  in  his  room!  As 
many  as  ten,  I  guess !  I  tole  him :  I  says, '  It  does,  now, 
beat  all  the  way  you  take  to  them  books  and  pamp  'lets 
and  things!'  " 

"It  's  a  pity  of  him ! ' '  said  motherly  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel. 

"And  I  says  to  him,"  added  the  doctor,  "I  says, 
'You  ain't  much  fur  sociability,  are  you?'  I  says." 

"Well,  I  did  think,  too,  Amanda,"  sympathized  her 
mother,  "he  'd  set  up  with  you  mebbe  to-night,  seein' 
Rebecca  and  Tillie  's  each  got  their  gent  'man  comp  'ny 
—even  if  he  did  n't  mean  it  fur  really,  but  only  to 
pass  the  time." 

"Och,  he  need  n't  think  I  'm  dyin'  to  set  up  with 
him!  There  's  a  plenty  others  would  be  glad  to  set  up 
with  me,  if  I  was  one  of  them  that  was  fur  keep  in' 
comp'ny  with  just  anybody!  But  I  did  think  when 
I  heard  he  was  goin'  to  stop  here  that  mebbe  he  'd 
be  a  jolly  feller  that  way.  Well,"  Amanda  con- 
cluded scathingly,  "I  'm  goin'  to  tell  Lizzie  Hershey 
she  ain  't  missin '  much ! ' ' 

193 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"What  's  them  pecooliar  views  of  hisn  you  was 
goin'  to  speak  to  us,  Doe?"  said  Absalom. 

"Och,  yes,  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you  them.  Well,  here 
this  after  we  got  to  talkin'  about  the  subjeck  of 
prayer,  and  I  ast  him  his  opinion.  And  if  I  under- 
stood right  what  he  meant,  why,  prayin'  is  no  different 
to  him  than  musin'.  Leastways,  that  's  the  thought 
I  got  out  of  his  words." 

"Musin',"  repeated  Absalom.    "What  's  musin'?" 

"Yes,  what  's  that  ag'in?"  asked  Mrs.  Wackernagel, 
alert  with  curiosity,  theological  discussions  being  al- 
ways of  deep  interest  to  her. 

"Musin'  is  settin'  by  yourself  and  thinkin'  of  your 
learnin',"  explained  the  doctor.  "I  've  took  notice, 
this  long  time  back,  educated  persons  they  like  to  set 
by  theirselves,  still,  and  muse." 

"And  do  you  say,"  demanded  Absalom,  indig- 
nantly, "that  Teacher  he  says  it  's  the  same  to  him 
as  prayin'— this  here  musin'?" 

"So  much  as  I  know,  that  's  what  he  sayed." 

"Well,"  declared  Absalom,  "that  there  ain't  in  the 
Bible!  He  'd  better  watch  out!  If  he  ain't  a  Bible 
Christian,  pop  and  Jake  Getz  and  the  other  directors 
'11  soon  put  him  off  William  Penn ! ' ' 

' '  Och,  Absalom,  go  sass  your  gran  'mom ! ' '  was  the 
doctor's  elegant  retort.  "What  's  ailin'  you,  any- 
ways, that  you  want  to  be  so  spunky  about  Teacher  ? 
I  guess  you  're  mebbe  thinkin'  he  '11  cut  you  out  with 
TiUie,  ain't?" 

"I  'd  like  to  see  him  try  it  oncet!"  growled  Ab- 
salom. 

194 


The  Wackernagels  "conwerse" 

Tillie  grew  cold  with  fear  that  the  teacher  might 
hear  them;  but  she  knew  there  was  no  use  in  pro- 
testing. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  keep  on  at  William  Penn  all 
winter,  Absalom?"  Mrs.  Wackernagel  asked. 

"Just  long  enough  to  see  if  he  kin  learn  'rithme- 
tic  to  me.  Ezra  Herr,  he  was  too  dumm  to  learn  me. ' ' 

"Mebbe,"  said  the  doctor,  astutely,  "you  was  too 
dumm  to  get  learnt!" 

"I  am  wonderful  dumm  in  'rithmetic,"  Absalom 
acknowledged  shamelessly.  "But  pop  says  this  here 
teacher  is  smart  and  kin  mebbe  learn  me.  I  've  not 
saw  him  yet  myself." 

Much  as  Tillie  disliked  being  alone  with  her  suitor, 
she  was  rather  relieved  this  evening  when  the  family, 
en  masse,  significantly  took  its  departure  to  the  second 
floor;  for  she  hoped  that  with  no  one  but  Absalom  to 
deal  with,  she  could  induce  him  to  lower  his  voice  so 
their  talk  would  not  be  audible  to  the  teacher  in  the 
room  above. 

Had  she  been  able  but  faintly  to  guess  what  was  to 
ensue  on  her  being  left  alone  with  him,  she  would  have 
fled  up-stairs  with  the  rest  of  the  family  and  left 
Absalom  to  keep  company  with  the  chairs. 


195 


XVII 

THE  TEACHER  MEETS  ABSALOM 

ONLY  a  short  time  had  the  sitting-room  been  aban- 
doned to  them  when  Tillie  was  forced  to  put  a 
check  upon  her  lover's  ardor. 

"Now,  Absalom,"  she  firmly  said,  moving  away 
from  his  encircling  arm,  "unless  you  leave  me  be, 
I  'm  not  sitting  on  the  settee  alongside  you  at  all. 
You  must  not  kiss  me  or  hold  my  hand— or  even 
touch  me.  Never  again.  I  told  you  so  last  Sunday 
night." 

"But  why?"  Absalom  asked,  genuinely  puzzled. 
"Is  it  that  I  kreistle  you,  Tillie?" 

"N — no,"  she  hesitated.  An  affirmative  reply,  she 
knew,  would  be  regarded  as  a  cold-blooded  insult. 
In  fact,  Tillie  herself  did  not  understand  her  own 
repugnance  to  Absalom's  caresses. 

"You  act  like  as  if  I  made  you  feel  repulsive  to  me, 
Tillie,"  he  complained. 

"N— no.    I  don't  want  to  be  touched.    That  's  all. " 

"'Well,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  fun  you  think  there 
is  in  settin'  up  with  a  girl  that  won't  leave  a  feller 
kiss  her  or  hug  her ! ' ' 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don 't  know  what  you  do  see  in  it,  Absa- 
lom. I  told  you  not  to  come. ' ' 

196 


The  teacher  meets  Absalom 

"If  I  ain't  to  hold  your  hand  or  kiss  you,  what  are 
we  to  do  to  pass  the  time?"  he  reasoned. 

"I  '11  tell  you,  Absalom.  Let  me  read  to  you.  Then 
we  would  n't  be  wasting  the  evening." 

"I  ain't  much  fur  readin'.  I  ain't  like  Teacher." 
He  frowned  and  looked  at  her  darkly.  "I  've  took 
notice  how  much  fur  books  you  are  that  way.  Last 
Sunday  night,  too,  you  sayed,  'Let  me  read  somepin 
to  you.'  Mebbe  you  and  Teacher  will  be  settin'  up 
readin'  together.  And  mebbe  the  Doc  was  n't  just 
jokin'  when  he  sayed  Teacher  might  cut  me  out!" 

"Please,  Absalom,"  Tillie  implored  him,  "don't 
talk  so  loud!" 

"I  don't  care!  I  hope  he  hears  me  sayin'  that  if 
he  ever  comes  tryin'  to  get  my  girl  off  me,  I  '11  get 
pop  to  have  him  put  off  his  job !" 

"None  of  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
Tillie  indignantly  whispered.  "You  can't  under- 
stand. The  teacher  is  a  man  that  would  n  't  any  more 
keep  company  with  one  of  us  country  girls  than  you 
would  keep  company,  Absalom,  with  a  gipsy.  He  's 
above  us!" 

"Well,  I  guess  if  you  're  good  enough  fur  me, 
Tillie  Getz,  you  're  good  enough  fur  anybody  else — 
leastways  fur  a  man  that  gets  his  job  off  the  wotes  of 
your  pop  and  mine ! ' ' 

"The  teacher  is  a— a  gentleman,  Absalom." 

Absalom  did  not  understand.  "  Well,  I  guess 
I  know  he  ain't  a  lady.  I  guess  I  know  what  his 
sekis!" 

Tillie  sighed  in  despair,   and  sank  back  on  the 

197 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

settee.     For   a   few   minutes   they   sat  in   strained 
silence. 

"I  never  seen  a  girl  like  what  you  are!  You  're 
wonderful  different  to  the  other  girls  I  've  knew 
a 'ready." 

Tillie  did  not  reply. 

"Where  d'  you  come  by  them  books  you  read?" 

"The  Doc  gets  them  for  me." 

"Well,  Tillie,  look-ahere.  I  spoke  somepin  to  the 
Doc  how  I  wanted  to  fetch  you  somepin  along  when 
I  come  over  sometime,  and  I  ast  him  what,  now,  he 
thought  you  would  mebbe  like.  And  he  sayed  a  book. 
So  I  got  Cousin  Sally  Puntz  to  fetch  one  along  fur  me 
from  the  Methodist  Sunday-school  li-bry,  and  here  I 
brung  it  over  to  you. ' ' 

He  produced  a  small  volume  from  his  coat  pocket. 

' '  I  was  'most  ashamed  to  bring  it,  it  's  so  wonderful 
little.  I  tole  Cousin  Sally,  'Why  did  n't  you  bring  me 
a  bigger  book?'  And  she  sayed  she  did  try  to  get 
a  bigger  one,  but  they  was  all.  There  's  one  in  that 
li-bry  with  four  hunderd  pages.  I  tole  her,  now,  she 's 
to  try  to  get  me  that  there  one  next  Sunday  before  it  's 
took  by  somebody.  This  one  's  'most  too  little." 

Tillie  smiled  as  she  took  it  from  him.  "Thank  you, 
Absalom.  I  don't  care  if  it  's  little,  so  long  as  it  's 
interesting — and  instructive,"  she  spoke  primly. 

' '  The  Bible  's  such  a  big  book,  I  thought  the  bigger 
the  book  was,  the  nearer  it  was  like  the  Bible,"  said 
Absalom. 

"But  there  's  the  dictionary,  Absalom.  It  's  as  big 
as  the  Bible." 

198 


1  Unless  you  leave  me  be,  I  'm  not  sitting  on  the  settee 
alongside  you  at  all.'" 


The  teacher  meets  Absalom 

"Don't  the  size  make  nothin'?"  Absalom  asked. 

Tillie  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  She  glanced 
down  and  read  aloud  the  title  of  the  book  she  held: 
"  'What  a  Young  Husband  Ought  to  Know.'  " 

' '  But,  Absalom ! ' '  she  faltered. 

"Well?    What?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  heavy,  blank  face,  and  sud- 
denly a  faint  sense  of  humor  seemed  born  in  her— and 
she  laughed. 

The  laugh  illumined  her  face,  and  it  was  too  much 
for  Absalom.  He  seized  her  and  kissed  her,  with  re- 
sounding emphasis,  squarely  on  the  mouth. 

Instantly  Tillie  wrenched  herself  away  from  him 
and  stood  up.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes 
sparkled.  And  yet,  she  was  not  indignant  with  him 
in  the  sense  that  a  less  unsophisticated  girl  would  have 
been.  Absalom,  according  to  New  Canaan  standards, 
was  not  exceeding  his  rights  under  the  circumstances. 
But  an  instinct,  subtle,  undefined,  incomprehensible 
to  herself,  contradicted,  indeed,  by  every  convention 
of  the  neighborhood  in  which  she  had  been  reared, 
made  Tillie  feel  that  in  yielding  her  lips  to  this  man 
for  whom  she  did  not  care,  and  whom,  if  she  could 
hold  out  against  him,  she  did  not  intend  to  marry,  she 
was  desecrating  her  womanhood.  Vague  and  obscure 
as  her  feeling  was,  it  was  strong  enough  to  control  her. 

' '  I  meant  what  I  said,  Absalom.  If  you  won 't  leave 
me  be,  I  won't  stay  here  with  you.  You  '11  have  to  go 
home,  for  now  I  'm  going  right  up-stairs. ' ' 

She  spoke  with  a  firmness  that  made  the  dull  youth 
suddenly  realize  a  thing  of  which  he  had  never 

201 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

dreamed,  that  however  slightly  Tillie  resembled  her 
father  in  other  respects,  she  did  have  a  bit  of  his 
determination. 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  stairs,  but  Absalom 
seized  her  skirts  and  pulled  her  back.  "You  need  n't 
think  I  'm  leavin'  you  act  like  that  to  me,  Tillie!" 
he  muttered,  his  ardor  whetted  by  the  difficulties 
of  his  courting.  "Now  I  '11  learn  you!"  and  holding 
her  slight  form  in  his  burly  grasp  he  kissed  her  again 
and  again. 

"Leave  me  go!"  she  cried.  "I  '11  call  out  if  you 
don 't !  Stop  it,  Absalom ! ' ' 

Absalom  laughed  aloud,  his  eyes  glittering  as  he 
felt  her  womanly  helplessness  in  his  strong  clasp. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Tillie?  You  can't 
help  yourself — you  got  to  get  kissed  if  you  want  to  or 
no ! "  And  again  his  articulate  caresses  sounded  upon 
her  shrinking  lips,  and  he  roared  with  laughter  in  his 
own  satisfaction  and  in  his  enjoyment  of  her  predica- 
ment. "You  can't  help  yourself,"  he  said,  crushing 
her  against  him  in  a  bearish  hug. 

"Absalom!"  the  girl's  voice  rang  out  sharply  in 
pain  and  fear. 

Then  of  a  sudden  Absalom's  wrists  were  seized 
in  a  strong  grip,  and  the  young  giant  found  his  arms 
pinned  behind  him. 

"Now,  then,  Absalom,  you  let  this  little  girl  alone. 
Do  you  understand?"  said  Fairchilds,  coolly,  as  he  let 
go  his  hold  on  the  youth  and  stepped  round  to  his  side. 

Absalom's  face  turned  white  with  fury  as  he  real- 
ized who  had  dared  to  interfere.  He  opened  his  lips, 

202 


The  teacher  meets  Absalom 

but  speech  would  not  come  to  him.  Clenching  his  fin- 
gers, he  drew  back  his  arm,  but  his  heavy  fist,  coming 
swiftly  forward,  was  caught  easily  in  Fairchilds's 
palm — and  held  there. 

"Come,  come,"  he  aaid  soothingly,  "it  isn't  worth 
while  to  row,  you  know.  And  in  the  presence  of  the 
lady!" 

"You  mind  to  your  own  business!"  spluttered  Ab- 
salom, struggling  to  free  his  hand,  and,  to  his  own  sur- 
prise, failing.  Quickly  he  drew  back  his  left  fist  and 
again  tried  to  strike,  only  to  find  it  too  caught  and  held, 
with  no  apparent  effort  on  the  part  of  the  teacher. 
Tillie,  at  first  pale  with  fright  at  what  had  promised 
to  be  so  unequal  a  contest  in  view  of  the  teacher's 
slight  frame  and  the  brawny,  muscular  strength  of 
Absalom,  felt  her  pulses  bound  with  a  thrill  of  admira- 
tion for  this  cool,  quiet  force  which  could  render  the 
other's  fury  so  helpless;  while  at  the  same  time  she 
felt  sick  with  shame. 

"Blame  you!"  cried  Absalom,  wildly.  "Le'  me 
be!  It  don't  make  nothin'  to  you  if  I  kiss  my  girl! 
I  don 't  owe  you  nothin ' !  You  le '  me  be ! " 

"Certainly,"  returned  Fairchilds,  cheerfully. 
"Just  stop  annoying  Miss  Tillie,  that  's  all  I  want." 

He  dropped  the  fellow's  hands  and  deliberately 
drew  out  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  own. 

A  third  time  Absalom  made  a  furious  dash  at  him, 
to  find  his  two  wrists  caught  in  the  vise-like  grip 
of  his  antagonist. 

"Tut,  tut,  Absalom,  this  is  quite  enough.  Behave 
yourself,  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to  hurt  you." 

203 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"You — you  white-faced,  woman- faced  mackerel! 
Tow  think  you  kin  hurt  me !  You— 

"Now  then,"  Fairchilds  again  dropped  Absalom's 
hands  and  picked  up  from  the  settee  the  book  which 
the  youth  had  presented  to  Tillie.  "Here,  Absalom, 
take  your  'What  a  Young  Husband  Ought  to  Know' 
and  go  home." 

Something  in  the  teacher's  quiet,  confident  tone 
cowed  Absalom  completely — for  the  time  being,  at 
least.  He  was  conquered.  It  was  very  bewildering. 
The  man  before  him  was  not  half  his  weight  and  was 
not  in  the  least  ruffled.  How  had  he  so  easily  "licked" 
him!  Absalom,  by  reason  of  his  stalwart  phys- 
ique and  the  fact  that  his  father  was  a  director, 
had,  during  most  of  his  school  life,  found  pleas- 
ing diversion  in  keeping  the  various  teachers  of  Wil- 
liam Penn  cowed  before  him.  He  now  saw  his 
supremacy  in  that  quarter  at  an  end— physically 
speaking  at  least.  There  might  be  a  moral  point 
of  attack. 

"Look-ahere!"  he  blustered.  "Do  you  know  my 
pop  's  Nathaniel  Puntz,  the  director?" 

"You  are  a  credit  to  him,  Absalom.  By  the  way, 
will  you  take  a  message  to  him  from  me?  Tell  him, 
please,  that  the  lock  on  the  school-room  door  is  broken, 
and  I  'd  be  greatly  obliged  if  he  would  send  up  a  lock- 
smith to  mend  it." 

Absalom  looked  discouraged.  A  Harvard  graduate 
was,  manifestly,  a  freak  of  nature— invulnerable  at  all 
points. 

"If  pop  gets  down  on  you,  you  won't  be  long  at 

204 


The  teacher  meets  Absalom 

William  Penn!"  he  bullied.  "You  '11  soon  get  chased 
off  your  job!" 

"My  job  at  breaking  you  in?  Well,  well,  I  might 
be  spending  my  time  more  profitably,  that  's  so. ' ' 

"You  go  on  out  of  here  and  le'  me  alone  with 
my  girl ! ' '  quavered  Absalom,  blinking  away  tears  of 
rage. 

"That  will  be  as  she  says.  How  is  it,  Miss  Tillie? 
Do  you  want  him  to  go-? ' ' 

.  Now  Tillie  knew  that  if  she  allowed  Absalom  Puntz 
to  leave  her  in  his  present  state  of  baffled  anger,  Fair- 
childs  would  not  remain  in  New  Canaan  a  month. 
Absalom  was  his  father's  only  child,  and  Nathaniel 
Puntz  was  known  to  be  both  suspicious  and  vindictive. 
"Clothed  in  a  little  brief  authority,"  as  school  di- 
rector, he  never  missed  an  opportunity  to  wield  his 
precious  power. 

With  quick  insight,  Tillie  realized  that  the  teacher 
would  think  meanly  of  her  if,  after  her  outcry  at 
Absalom's  amorous  behavior,  she  now  inconsistently 
ask  that  he  remain  with  her  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  But  what  the  teacher  might  think  about  her 
did  not  matter  so  much  as  that  he  should  be  saved 
from  the  wrath  of  Absalom. 

"Please  leave  him  stay,"  she  answered  in  a  low 
voice. 

Fairchilds  gazed  in  surprise  upon  the  girl's  sweet, 
troubled  face.  ' '  Let  him  stay  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Then  perhaps  my  interference  was  unwelcome?" 

"I  thank  you,  but— I  want  him  to  stay." 

205 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Yes?  I  beg  pardon  for  my  intrusion.  Good 
night." 

He  turned  away  somewhat  abruptly  and  left  the 
room. 

And  Tillie  was  again  alone  with  Absalom. 

IN  his  chamber,  getting  ready  for  bed,  Fairchilds's 
thoughts  idly  dwelt  upon  the  strange  contradictions  he 
seemed  to  see  in  the  character  of  the  little  Mennonite 
maiden.  He  had  thought  that  he  recognized  in  her 
a  difference  from  the  rest  of  this  household— a  dif- 
ference in  speech,  in  feature,  in  countenance,  in  her 
whole  personality.  And  yet  she  could  allow  the 
amorous  attentions  of  that  coarse,  stupid  cub;  and 
her  protestations  against  the  fellow's  liberties  with 
her  had  been  mere  coquetry.  Well,  he  would  be  care- 
ful, another  time,  how  he  played  the  part  of  a  Don 
Quixote. 

Meantime  Tillie,  with  suddenly  developed  histri- 
onic skill,  was,  by  a  Spartan  self-sacrifice  in  submit- 
ting to  Absalom's  love-making,  overcoming  his  wrath 
against  the  teacher.  Absalom  never  suspected  how  he 
was  being  played  upon,  or  what  a  mere  tool  he  was  in 
the  hands  of  this  gentle  little  girl,  when,  somewhat  to 
his  own  surprise,  he  found  himself  half  promising 
that  the  teacher  should  not  be  complained  of  to  his 
father.  The  infinite  tact  and  scheming  it  required 
on  Tillie 's  part  to  elicit  this  assurance  without  fur- 
ther arousing  his  jealousy  left  her,  at  the  end  of  his 
prolonged  sitting-up,  utterly  exhausted. 

Yet  when  at  last  her  weary  head  found  her  pillow, 

206 


The  teacher  meets  Absalom 

it  was  not  to  rest  or  sleep.  A  haunting,  fearful  cer- 
tainty possessed  her.  "Dumm"  as  he  was,  Absalom, 
in  his  invulnerable  persistency,  had  become  to  the 
tired,  tortured  girl  simply  an  irresistible  force  of 
Nature.  And  Tillie  felt  that,  struggle  as  she  might 
against  him,  there  would  come  a  day  when  she  could 
fight  no  longer,  and  so  at  last  she  must  fall  a  victim 
to  this  incarnation  of  Dutch  determination. 


2O7 


xvin 

TILLIE   REVEALS   HERSELF 

IN  the  next  few  days,  Tillie  tried  in  vain  to  summon 
courage  to  appeal  to  the  teacher  for  assistance  in 
her  winter 's  study.  Day  after  day  she  resolved  to  speak 
to  him,  and  as  often  postponed  it,  unable  to  conquer 
her  shyness.  Meantime,  however,  under  the  stimulus 
of  his  constant  presence,  she  applied  herself  in  every 
spare  moment  to  the  school-books  used  by  her  two 
cousins,  and  in  this  unaided  work  she  succeeded,  as 
usual,  in  making  headway. 

Fairchilds's  attention  was  arrested  by  the  frequent 
picture  of  the  little  Mennonite  maiden  conning  school- 
books  by  lamp-light. 

One  evening  he  happened  to  be  alone  with  her  for 
a  few  minutes  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was  Hallow- 
e'en, and  he  was  waiting  for  Amanda  to  come  down 
from  her  room,  where  she  was  arraying  herself  for 
conquest  at  a  party  in  the  village,  to  which  he  had 
been  invited  to  escort  her. 

"Studying  all  alone?"  he  inquired  sociably,  coming 
to  the  table  where  Tillie  sat,  and  looking  down  upon 
her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Tillie,  raising  her  eyes  for  an  instant. 

"May  I  see?" 

208 


Tillie  reveals  herself 

He  bent  to  look  at  her  book,  pressing  it  open  with 
his  palm,  and  the  movement  brought  his  hand  in  con- 
tact with  hers.  Tillie  felt  for  an  instant  as  if  she  were 
going  to  swoon,  so  strangely  delicious  was  the  shock. 

"  'Hiawatha,'  "  he  said,  all  unconscious  of  the  tem- 
pest in  the  little  soul  apparently  so  close  to  him,  yet 
in  reality  so  immeasurably  far  away.  "Do  you  en- 
joy it?"  he  inquired  curiously. 

' '  Oh,  yes ' ' ;  then  quickly  she  added,  ' '  I  am  pars- 
ing it." 

"Oh!"  There  was  a  faint  disappointment  in  his 
tone. 

"But,"  she  confessed,  "I  read  it  all  through  the 
first  day  I  began  to  parse  it,  and— and  I  wish  I  was 
parsing  something  else,  because  I  keep  reading  this 
instead  of  parsing  it,  and — " 

"You  enjoy  the  story  and  the  poetry?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"But  a  body  must  n't  read  just  for  pleasure,"  she 
said  timidly;  "but  for  instruction;  and  this  'Hia- 
watha' is  a  temptation  to  me." 

"What  makes  you  think  you  ought  not  to  read  'just 
for  pleasure'?" 

"That  would  be  a  vanity.  And  we  Mennonites  are 
loosed  from  the  things  of  the  world. ' ' 

"Do  you  never  do  anything  just  for  the  pleasure 
of  it?" 

"When  pleasure  and  duty  go  hand  in  hand,  then 
pleasure  is  not  displeasing  to  God.  But  Christ,  you 
know,  did  not  go  about  seeking  pleasure.  And  we  try; 
to  follow  him  in  all  things." 

209 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"But,  child,  has  not  God  made  the  world  beauti- 
ful for  our  pleasure?  Has  he  not  given  us  appetites 
and  passions  for  our  pleasure? — minds  and  hearts  and 
bodies  constructed  for  pleasure?" 

"Has  he  made  anything  for  pleasure  apart  from 
usefulness?"  Tillie  asked  earnestly,  suddenly  forget- 
ting her  shyness. 

"But  when  a  thing  gives  pleasure  it  is  serving  the 
highest  possible  use, ' '  he  insisted.  "It  is  blasphemous 
to  close  your  nature  to  the  pleasures  God  has  created 
for  you.  Blasphemous!" 

"Those  thoughts  have  come  to  me  still,"  said  Til- 
lie.  ' '  But  I  know  they  were  sent  to  me  by  the  Enemy. ' ' 

"  'The  Enemy'?" 

"The  Enemy  of  our  souls." 

"Oh!"  he  nodded;  then  abruptly  added,  "Now  do 
you  know,  little  girl,  I  would  n't  let  him  bother  me  at 
this  stage  of  the  game,  if  I  were  you !  He  's  a  back 
number,  really!"  He  checked  himself,  remembering 
how  dangerous  such  heresies  were  in  New  Canaan. 
"Don't  you  find  it  dull  working  alone?"  he  asked 
hastily, ' '  and  rather  uphill  ? ' ' 

"It  is  often  very  hard." 

"Often?  Then  you  have  been  doing  it  for  some 
time?" 

"Yes,"  Tillie  answered  hesitatingly.  No  one  ex- 
cept the  doctor  shared  her  secret  with  Miss  Margaret. 
Self -concealment  had  come  to  be  the  habit  of  her  life 
—her  instinct  for  self-preservation.  And  yet,  the 
teacher's  evident  interest,  his  presence  so  close  to  her, 
brought  all  her  soul  to  her  lips.  She  had  a  feeling 

210 


Tillie  reveals  herself 

that  if  she  could  overcome  her  shyness,  she  would  be 
able  to  speak  to  him  as  unrestrainedly,  as  truly,  as  she 
talked  in  her  letters  to  Miss  Margaret. 

"Do  you  have  no  help  at  all?"  he  pursued. 

Could  she  trust  him  with  the  secret  of  Miss  Mar- 
garet's letters?  The  habit  of  secretiveness  was  too 
strong  upon  her.  "There  is  no  one  here  to  help  me — 
unless  you  would  sometimes,"  she  timidly  answered. 

"I  am  at  your  service  always.  Nothing  could  give 
me  greater  pleasure." 

' '  Thank  you. ' '    Her  face  flushed  with  delight. 

"You  have,  of  course,  been  a  pupil  at  William 
Penn?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  father  took  me  out  of  school  when  I  was 
twelve.  Ever  since  then  I  've  been  trying  to  educate 
myself,  but — "  she  lifted  troubled  eyes  to  his  face, 
"no  one  here  knows  it  but  the  doctor.  No  one  must 
know  it." 

"Trust  me,"  he  nodded.  "But  why  must  they  not 
know  it  ? " 

"Father  would  stop  it  if  he  found  it  out." 

"Why?" 

"He  would  n't  leave  me  waste  the  time." 

"You  have  had  courage— to  have  struggled  against 
such  odds. ' ' 

"It  has  not  been  easy.  But— it  seems  to  me 
the  things  that  are  worth  having  are  never  easy  to 
get. ' ' 

Fairchilds  looked  at  her  keenly. 

' '  '  The  things  that  are  worth  having '  ?  What  do  you 
count  as  such  things  ? ' ' 

211 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Knowledge  and  truth;  and  personal  freedom  to 
be  true  to  one's  self." 

He  concealed  the  shock  of  surprise  he  felt  at  her 
words.  "What  have  we  here?"  he  wondered,  his 
pulse  quickening  as  he  looked  into  the  shining  up- 
raised eyes  of  the  girl  and  saw  the  tumultuous  heav- 
ing of  her  bosom.  He  had  been  right  after  all,  then, 
in  feeling  that  she  was  different  from  the  rest  of  them ! 
He  could  see  that  it  was  under  the  stress  of  unusual 
emotion  that  she  gave  expression  to  thoughts  which  of 
necessity  she  must  seldom  or  never  utter  to  those  about 
her. 

"  'Personal  freedom  to  be  true  to  one's  self?"  he 
repeated.  "What  would  it  mean  to  you  if  you 
had  it?" 

' '  Life ! ' '  she  answered.  ' '  I  am  only  a  dead  machine, 
except  when  I  am  living  out  my  true  self." 

He  deliberately  placed  his  hand  on  hers  as  it  lay  on 
the  table.  "You  make  me  want  to  clasp  hands  with 
you.  Do  you  realize  what  a  big  truth  you  have  gotten 
hold  of — and  all  that  it  involves?" 

"I  only  know  what  it  means  to  me." 

"You  are  not  free  to  be  yourself?" 

"I  have  never  drawn  a  natural  breath  except  in 
secret." 

Tillie 's  face  was  glowing.  Scarcely  did  she  know 
herself  in  this  wonderful  experience  of  speaking 
freely,  face  to  face,  with  one  who  understood. 

"My  own  recent  experiences  of  life,"  he  said 
gravely,  "have  brought  me,  too,  to  realize  that  it  is 
death  in  life  not  to  be  true  to  one's  self.  But  if  you 

212 


Tillie  reveals  herself 

wait  for  the  freedom  to  be  so—  "  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "One  always  has  that  freedom  if  he  will  take 
it— at  its  fearful  cost.  To  be  uncompromisingly  and 
always  true  to  one's  self  simply  means  martyrdom  in 
one  form  or  another." 

He,  too,  marveled  that  he  should  have  found  any 
one  in  this  household  to  whom  he  could  speak  in  such 
a  vein  as  this. 

'"I  always  thought,"  Tillie  said,  "that  when  I 
was  enough  educated  to  be  a  teacher  and  be  indepen- 
dent of  father,  I  would  be  free  to  live  truly.  But 
I  see  that  you  cannot.  You,  too,  have  to  hide  your 
real  self.  Else  you  could  not  stay  here  in  New 
Canaan." 

"Or  anywhere  else,  child,"  he  smiled.  "It  is  only 
with  the  rare  few  whom  one  finds  on  one's  own 
line  of  march  that  one  can  be  absolutely  one's  self. 
Your  secret  life,  Miss  Tillie,  is  not  unique. ' ' 

A  fascinating  little  brown  curl  had  escaped  from 
Tillie 's  cap  and  lay  on  her  cheek,  and  she  raised  her 
hand  to  push  it  back  where  it  belonged,  under  its 
snowy  Mennonite  covering. 

"Don't!"  said  Fairchilds.  "Let  it  be.  It  's 
pretty!" 

Tillie  stared  up  at  him,  a  new  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"In  that  Mennonite  cap,  you  look  like — like  a  Ma- 
donna!" Almost  unwittingly  the  words  had  leaped 
from  his  lips ;  he  could  not  hold  them  back.  And  in 
uttering  them,  it  came  to  him  that  in  the  freedom 
permissible  to  him  with  an  unsophisticated  but  in- 
teresting and  gifted  girl  like  this — freedom  from  the 

215 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

conventional  restraints  which  had  always  limited  his 
intercourse  with  the  girls  of  his  own  social  world — 
there  might  be  possible  a  friendship  such  as  he  had 
never  known  except  with  those  of  his  own  sex — and 
with  them  but  rarely.  The  thought  cheered  him 
mightily ;  for  his  life  in  New  Canaan  was  heavy  with 
loneliness. 

With  the  selfishness  natural  to  man,  he  did  not  stop 
to  consider  what  such  companionship  might  come  to 
mean  to  this  inexperienced  girl  steeped  in  a  life  of 
sordid  labor  and  unbroken  monotony. 

There  came  the  rustle  of  Amanda's  skirts  on  the 
stairs. 

Fairchilds  clasped  Tillie 's  passive  hand.  "I  feel 
that  I  have  found  a  friend  to-night. ' ' 

Amanda,  brilliant  in  a  scarlet  frock  and  pink  rib- 
bons, appeared  in  the  doorway.  The  vague,  almost 
unseeing  look  with  which  the  teacher  turned  to  her 
was  interpreted  by  the  vanity  of  this  buxom  dam- 
sel to  be  the  dazzled  vision  of  eyes  half  blinded  by  her 
radiance. 

For  a  long  time  after  they  had  gone  away  together, 
Tillie  sat  with  her  face  bowed  upon  her  book,  happi- 
ness surging  through  her  with  every  great  throb  of  her 
heart. 

At  last  she  rose,  picked  up  the  lamp  and  carried 
it  into  the  kitchen  to  the  little  mirror  before  which 
the  family  combed  their  hair.  Holding  the  lamp  high, 
she  surveyed  her  features.  As  long  as  her  arm  would 
bear  the  weight  of  the  uplifted  lamp,  she  gazed  at  her 
reflected  image. 

2l6 


'Amanda,  brilliant  in  a  scarlet 
frock  and  pink  ribbons." 


Tillie  reveals  herself 

When  presently  with  trembling  arm  she  set  it  on  the 
dresser,  Tillie,  like  Mother  Eve  of  old,  had  tasted  of 
the  Tree  of  Knowledge.  Tillie  knew  that  she  was  very 
fair. 

That  evening  marked  another  crisis  in  the  girl's 
(  inner  life.  Far  into  the  night  she  lay  with  her  eyes 
wide  open,  staring  into  the  darkness,  seeing  there 
strange  new  visions  of  her  own  soul,  gazing  into  its 
hitherto  unsounded  depths  and  seeing  there  the  heaven 
or  the  hell — she  scarcely  knew  which — that  possessed 
all  her  being. 

' '  Blasphemous  to  close  your  nature  to  the  pleasures 
God  has  created  for  you ! ' '  His  words  burned  them- 
selves into  her  brain.  Was  it  to  an  abyss  of  degrada- 
tion that  her  nature  was  bearing  her  in  a  swift  and 
fatal  tide— or  to  a  holy  height  of  blessedness?  Al- 
ternately her  fired  imagination  and  awakened  passion 
exalted  her  adoration  of  him  into  an  almost  religious 
joy,  making  her  yearn  to  give  herself  to  him,  soul 
and  body,  as  to  a  god ;  then  plunged  her  into  an  agony 
of  remorse  and  terror  at  her  own  idolatry  and  law- 


A  new  universe  was  opened  up  to  her,  and  all  of 
life  appeared  changed.  All  the  poetry  and  the  stories 
which  she  had  ever  read  held  new  and  wonderful 
meanings.  The  beauty  in  Nature,  which,  even  as  a 
child,  she  had  felt  in  a  way  she  knew  those  about  her 
could  never  have  understood,  now  spoke  to  her  in  a 
language  of  infinite  significance.  The  mystery,  the 
wonder,  the  power  of  love  were  revealed  to  her,  and 
her  soul  was  athirst  to  drink  deep  at  this  magic  foun- 
tain of  living  water. 

219 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"You  look  like  a  Madonna!"  Oh,  surely,  thought 
Tillie,  in  the  long  hours  of  that  wakeful  night,  this 
bliss  which  filled  her  heart  was  a  temptation  of  the 
Evil  One,  who  did  not  scruple  to  use  even  such  as  the 
teacher  for  an  instrument  to  work  her  undoing !  Was 
not  his  satanic  hand  clearly  shown  in  these  vain  and 
wicked  thoughts  which  crowded  upon  her— thoughts 
of  how  fair  she  would  look  in  a  red  gown  like 
Amanda's,  or  in  a  blue  hat  like  Rebecca's,  instead  of 
in  her  white  cap  and  black  hood?  She  crushed  her 
face  in  her  pillow  in  an  agony  of  remorse  for  her  own 
faithlessness,  as  she  felt  how  hideous  was  that  black 
Mennonite  hood  and  all  the  plain  garb  which  hitherto 
had  stood  to  her  for  the  peace,  the  comfort,  the  hap- 
piness, of  her  life!  With  all  her  mind,  she  tried  to 
force  back  such  wayward,  sinful  thoughts,  but  the 
more  she  wrestled  with  them,  the  more  persistently  did 
they  obtrude  themselves. 

On  her  knees  she  passionately  prayed  to  be  de- 
livered from  the  temptation  of  such  unfaithfulness 
to  her  Lord,  even  in  secret  thought.  Yet  even  while 
in  the  very  act  of  pleading  for  mercy,  forgiveness, 
help,  to  her  own  unutterable  horror  she  found  herself 
wondering  whether  she  would  dare  brave  her  father's 
wrath  and  ask  her  aunt,  in  the  morning,  to  keep  back 
from  her  father  a  portion  of  her  week 's  wages  that  she 
might  buy  some  new  white  caps,  her  old  ones  being  of 
poor  material  and  very  worn. 

It  was  a  tenet  of  her  church  that  "wearing-apparel 
was  instituted  by  God  as  a  necessity  for  the  sake  of 
propriety  and  also  for  healthful  warmth,  but  when 

22O 


Tillie  reveals  herself 

used  for  purposes  of  adornment  it  becomes  the  evi- 
dence of  an  un-Christlike  spirit."  Now  Tillie  knew 
that  her  present  yearning  for  new  caps  was  prompted, 
not  by  the  praiseworthy  and  simple  desire  to  be  merely 
neat,  but  wholly  by  her  vain  longing  to  appear  more 
fair  in  the  eyes  of  the  teacher. 

Thus  until  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  did  the 
young  girl  wrestle  with  the  conflicting  forces  in  her 
soul. 

But  the  Enemy  had  it  all  his  own  way;  for  when 
Tillie  went  down-stairs  next  morning  to  help  her  aunt 
get  breakfast,  she  knew  that  she  intended  this  day  to 
buy  those  new  caps  in  spite  of  the  inevitable  penalty 
she  would  have  to  suffer  for  daring  to  use  her  own 
money  without  her  father's  leave. 

And  when  she  walked  into  the  kitchen,  her  aunt  was 
amazed  to  see  the  girl's  fair  face  looking  out  from  a 
halo  of  tender  little  brown  curls,  which,  with  a  tor- 
tured conscience,  and  an  apprehension  of  retribution 
at  the  hands  of  the  meeting,  Tillie  had  brushed  from 
under  her  cap  and  arranged  with  artful  care. 


XIX 

TILLIE  TELLS  A  LIE 

rwas  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  Saturday 
morning,  a  busy  hour  at  the  hotel,  and  Mrs.  Waek- 
ernagel  and  Tillie  were  both  hard  at  work  in  the 
kitchen,  while  Rebecca  and  Amanda  were  vigorously 
applying  their  young  strength  to  "the  up-stairs 
work." 

The  teacher  was  lounging  on  the  settee  in  the  sit- 
ting-room, trying  to  read  his  Boston  Transcript  and 
divert  his  mind  from  its  irritation  and  discontent 
under  a  condition  of  things  which  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  command  Tillie 's  time  whenever  he  wanted 
a  companion  for  a  walk  in  the  woods,  or  for  a  talk  in 
which  he  might  unburden  himself  of  his  pent-up 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  only  freedom  she  had  was 
in  the  evening;  and  even  then  she  was  not  always 
at  liberty.  There  was  Amanda  always  ready  and  at 
hand— it  kept  him  busy  dodging  her.  Why  was  Fate 
so  perverse  in  her  dealings  with  him?  Why  could  n't 
it  be  Tillie  instead  of  Amanda?  Fairchilds  chafed 
under  this  untoward  condition  of  things  like  a  fret- 
ful child — or,  rather,  just  like  a  man  who  can't  have 
what  he  wants. 

Both  Tillie  and  her  aunt  went  about  their  tasks  this 

222 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

morning  with  a  nervousness  of  movement  and  an 
anxiety  of  countenance  that  told  of  something  un- 
wonted in  the  air.  Fairchilds  was  vaguely  conscious 
of  this  as  he  sat  in  the  adjoining  room,  with  the  door 
ajar. 

' '  Tillie ! ' '  said  her  aunt,  with  a  sharpness  unusual 
to  her,  as  she  closed  the  oven  door  with  a  spasmodic 
bang,  "you  put  on  your  shawl  and  bonnet  and  go 
right  up  to  Sister  Jennie  Hershey's  for  some  bacon." 

"Why,  Aunty  Em!"  said  Tillie,  in  surprise,  look- 
ing up  from  the  table  where  she  was  rolling  out  paste ; 
"I  can't  let  these  pies." 

"I  '11  finish  them  pies.    You  just  go  now." 

"But  we  've  got  plenty  of  bacon." 

"If  we  've  got  bacon  a-plenty,  then  get  some  pon- 
haus.  Or  some  mush.  Hurry  up  and  go,  Tillie!" 

She  came  to  the  girl's  side  and  took  the  rolling-pin 
from  her  hands.  ' '  And  don 't  hurry  back.  Set  awhile. 
Now  get  your  things  on  quick." 

"But,  Aunty  Em—" 

"Are  you  mindin'  me,  Tillie,  or  ain't  you?"  her 
aunt  sharply  demanded. 

"But  in  about  ten  minutes  father  will  be  stopping 
on  his  way  from  Lancaster  market,"  Tillie  said, 
though  obediently  going  toward  the  corner  where  hung 
her  shawl  and  bonnet,  "to  get  my  wages  and  see  me, 
Aunty  Em — like  what  he  does  every  Saturday  still." 

"Well,  don't  be  so  dumm,  Tillie !  That  's  why  I  'm 
sendin'  you  off!" 

"Oh,  Aunty  Em,  I  don't  want  to  go  away  and 
leave  you  to  take  all  the  blame  for  those  new  caps! 

223 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

And,  anyhow,  father  will  stop  at  Sister  Jennie  Her- 
shey's  if  he  don't  find  me  here." 

"I  won't  tell  him  you're  there.  And  push  them 
curls  under  your  cap,  or  Sister  Jennie  '11  be  tellin'  the 
meeting,  and  you  '11  be  set  back  yet!  I  don't  know 
what  's  come  over  you,  Tillie,  to  act  that  wain  and 
unregenerate ! " 

"Father  will  guess  I  'm  at  Sister  Jennie's,  and  he  '11 
stop  to  see." 

"That  's  so,  too."  Aunty  Em  thoughtfully  consid- 
ered the  situation.  "Go  out  and  hide  in  the  stable, 
Tillie." 

Tillie  hesitated  as  she  nervously  twisted  the  strings 
of  her  bonnet.  "What  's  the  use  of  hiding,  Aunty 
Em  ?  I  'd  have  to  see  him  next  Saturday. ' ' 

"He  won't  be  so  mad  about  it  till  next  Saturday." 

Tillie  shook  her  head.  ' '  He  '11  keep  getting  angrier 
—until  he  has  satisfied  himself  by  punishing  me  in 
some  way  for  spending  that  money  without  leave. ' ' 

The  girl's  face  was  pale,  but  she  spoke  very  quietly, 
and  her  aunt  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Tillie,  ain't  you  afraid  of  your  pop  no  more?" 

' '  Oh,  Aunty  Em !    Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  him. ' ' 

"I  'm  all  fidgety  myself,  thinkin'  about  how  mad 
he  '11  be.  Dear  knows  what  you  must  feel  yet,  Til- 
lie— and  what  all  your  little  life  you  Ve  been  feelin', 
with  his  fear  always  hangin'  over  you  still.  Some- 
times when  I  think  how  my  brother  Jake  trains  up  his 
childern!"— indignation  choked  her— "I  have  feelin 's 
that  are  un-Christlike,  Tillie!" 

"And  yet,  Aunty  Em,"  the  girl  said  earnestly, 

224 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

"father  does  care  for  me  too — even  though  he  always 
did  think  I  ought  to  want  nothing  else  but  to  work 
for  him.  But  he  does  care  for  me.  The  couple  of 
times  I  was  sick  already,  he  was  concerned.  I  can't 
forget  it. ' ' 

"To  be  sure,  he  'd  have  to  be  a  funny  man  if  he 
was  n't  concerned  when  his  own  child  's  sick,  Tillie. 
I  don't  give  him  much  for  that." 

"But  it  always  puzzled  me,  Aunty  Em — if  father's 
concerned  to  see  me  sick  or  suffering,  why  will  he  him- 
self deliberately  make  me  suffer  more  than  I  ever  suf- 
fered in  any  sickness?  I  never  could  understand 
that." 

"He  always  thinks  he  's  doin'  his  duty  by  you. 
That  we  must  give  him.  Och,  my !  there  's  his  wagon 
stoppin'  now!  Go  on  out  to  the  stable,  Tillie! 
Quick!" 

' '  Aunty  Em ! ' '  Tillie  faltered,  "  I  'd  sooner  stay  and 
have  it  done  with  now,  than  wait  and  have  it  hang- 
ing over  me  all  the  week  till  next  Saturday." 

There  was  another  reason  for  her  standing  her 
ground  and  facing  it  out.  Ever  since  she  had  yielded 
to  the  temptation  to  buy  the  caps  and  let  her  hair 
curl  about  her  face,  her  conscience  had  troubled  her 
for  her  vanity;  and  a  vague  feeling  that  in  suffering 
her  father's  displeasure  she  would  be  expiating  her 
sin  made  her  almost  welcome  his  coming  this  morn- 
ing. 

There  was  the  familiar  heavy  tread  in  the  bar-room 
which  adjoined  the  kitchen.  Tillie  flushed  and  paled 
by  turns  as  it  drew  near,  and  her  aunt  rolled  out  the 

225 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

paste  with  a  vigor  and  an  emphasis  that  expressed 
her  inward  agitation.  Even  Fairchilds,  in  the  next 
room,  felt  himself  infected  with  the  prevailing  sus- 
pense. 

"Well!"  was  Jake  Getz's  greeting  as  he  entered 
the  kitchen.  ' '  Em ! "  he  nodded  to  his  sister.  * '  Well, 
Tillie!" 

There  was  a  note  of  affection  in  his  greeting  of  his 
daughter.  Tillie  realized  that  her  father  missed  her 
presence  at  home  almost  as  much  as  he  missed  the 
work  that  she  did.  The  nature  of  his  regard  for  her 
was  a  mystery  that  had  always  puzzled  the  girl.  How 
could  one  be  constantly  hurting  and  thwarting  a  per- 
son whom  one  cared  for? 

Tillie  went  up  to  him  dutifully  and  held  out  her 
hand.  He  took  it  and  bent  to  kiss  her. 

"Are  you  well?  You  're  lookin'  some  pale.  And 
your  hair  's  strubbly  [untidy]." 

"She  's  been  sewin'  too  steady  on  them  clo'es 
fur  your  childern,"  said  Aunty  Em,  quickly.  "It 
gives  her  such  a  pain  in  her  side  still  to  set  and 
sew.  I  ain't  leavin'  her  set  up  every  night  to  sew 
no  more!  You  can  just  take  them  clo'es  home, 
Jake.  They  ain't  done,  and  they  won't  get  done 
here." 

"Do  you  mebb'e  leave  her  set  up  readin'  books  or 
such  pamp'lets,  ain't?"  Mr.  Getz  inquired. 

"I  make  her  go  to  bed  early  still,"  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel  said  evasively,  though  her  Mennonite  conscience 
reproached  her  for  such  want  of  strict  candor. 

"  That  dude  teacher  you  got  stayin'  here  mebbe 

226 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

gives  her  things  to  read,  ain  't  ? "  Mr.  Getz  pursued  his 
suspicions. 

"He  's  never  gave  her  nothin'  that  I  seen  him," 
Mrs.  Wackernagel  affirmed. 

"Well,  mind  you  don't  leave  her  waste  time  readin'. 
She  ain't  to." 

' '  You  need  n  't  trouble,  Jake  ! ' ' 

"Well,"  said  Jake,  "I  '11  leave  them  clo'es  another 
week,  and  mebbe  Tillie  '11  feel  some  better  and  can  get 
'em  done.  Mom  won't  like  it  when  I  come  without 
'em  this  mornin '.  She  's  needin '  'em  fur  the  childern, 
and  she  thought  they  'd  be  done  till  this  morning 
a  'ready. ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  hire  your  washin'  or  buy  her  a 
washin '-machine?  Then  she  'd  have  time  to  do  her 
own  sewin'." 

"Work  don't  hurt  a  body,"  Mr.  Getz  maintained. 
"It  's  healthy.  What  's  Tillie  doin'  this  morning?" 

"She  was  bakin'  these  pies,  but  I  want  her  now  to 
redd  up.  Take  all  them  pans  to  the  dresser,  Tillie." 

Tillie  went  to  the  table  to  do  as  she  was  bid. 

"Well,  I  must  be  goin'  home  now,"  said  Mr.  Getz. 
"I  '11  take  Tillie 's  wages,  Em." 

Mrs.  Wackernagel  set  her  lips  as  she  wiped  her 
hands  on  the  roller-towel  and  opened  the  dresser 
drawer  to  get  her  purse. 

"How  's  kerf"  she  inquired,  referring  to  Mrs.  Getz 
to  gain  time,  as  she  counted  out  the  money. 

' '  She  's  old-fashioned. ' ' 

"Is  the  childern  all  well?" 

"Yes,  they  're  all  middlin'  well.    Hurry  up,  Em; 

227 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

I  'm  in  a  hurry,  and  you  're  takin'  wonderful  long 
to  count  out  them  two  dollars." 

"  It  's  only  one  and  a  half  this  week,  Jake.  Tillie 
she  had  to  have  some  new  caps,  and  they  come  to  fifty 
cents.  And  I  took  notice  her  underdo 'es  was  too 
thin  fur  this  cold  spell,  and  I  wanted  her  to  buy  her- 
self a  warm  petticoat,  but  she  would  n't  take  the 
money." 

An  angry  red  dyed  the  swarthy  neck  and  forehead 
of  the  man,  as  his  keen  eyes,  very  like  his  sister's,  only 
lacking  their  expression  of  kindness,  flashed  from  her 
face  to  the  countenance  of  his  daughter  at  the  dresser. 

"What  business  have  you  lettin'  her  buy  any- 
thing?" he  sternly  demanded.  "You  was  to  give  me 
her  wages,  and  7  was  to  buy  her  what  she  could  n't  do 
without.  You  're  not  keep  in '  your  bargain ! ' ' 

"She  needed  them  caps  right  away.  I  could  n't 
wait  till  Saturday  to  ast  you  oncet.  And, ' '  she  boldly 
added,  "you  ought  to  leave  her  have  another  fifty 
cents  to  buy  herself  a  warm  petticoat!" 

"Tillie !"  commanded  her  father,  "you  come  here !" 

The  girl  was  very  white  as  she  obeyed  him.  But  her 
eyes,  as  they  met  his,  were  not  afraid. 

"It  's  easy  seen  why  you  're  pale !  I  guess  it  ain't 
no  pain  in  your  side  took  from  settin'  up  sewin'  fur 
mom  that  's  made  you  pale !  Now  see  here, ' '  he 
sternly  said,  "what  did  you  do  somepin  like  this  fur? 
Spendin'  fifty  cents  without  astin'  me!" 

"I  needed  the  caps,"  she  quietly  answered.  "And 
I  knew  you  would  not  let  me  buy  them  if  I  asked  you, 
father." 

228 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

"You  're  standin'  up  here  in  front  of  me  and  sayin' 
to  my  face  you  done  somepin  you  knowed  I  would  n't 
give  you  darst  to  do !  And  you  have  no  business,  any- 
how, wear-in'  them  New  Mennonite  caps!  I  never 
wanted  you  to  take  up  with  that  blamed  foolishness ! 
Well,  I  '11  learn  you !  If  I  had  you  home  I  'd  whip 
you ! ' ' 

"You  ain't  touchin'  her  'round  here!"  exclaimed 
his  sister.  "You  just  try  it,  Jake,  and  I  '11  call  Abe 
out!" 

"Is  she  my  own  child  or  ain't  she,  Em  Wacker- 
nagel  ?  And  can  I  do  with  my  own  what  I  please,  or 
must  I  ast  you  and  Abe  Wackernagel  ? " 

"She  's  too  growed  up  fur  to  be  punished,  Jake, 
and  you  know  it. ' ' 

"Till  she  's  too  growed  up  to  obey  her  pop,  she  '11 
get  punished,"  he  affirmed.  "Where  's  the  good  of 
your  religion,  I  'd  like  to  know,  Em — settin'  a  child 
on  to  defy  her  parent?  And  you,  Tillie,  you  stole 
that  money  off  of  me!  Your  earnin's  ain't  yourn 
till  you  're  twenty-one.  Is  them  New  Mennonite  prin- 
ciples to  take  what  ain't  yourn?  It  ain't  only  the 
fifty  cents  I  mind— it  's  your  disobedience  and  your 
stealin'." 

"Oh,  father!  it  was  n't  stealing!" 

"Of  course  it  was  n't  stealin'— takin'  what  you 
earnt  yourself — whether  you  are  seventeen  instead 
of  twenty-one ! ' '  her  aunt  warmly  assured  her. 

"Now  look-ahere,  Em!  If  yous  are  goin'  to  get  her 
so  spoilt  fur  me,  over  here,  she  ain  't  stayin '  here.  I  '11 
take  her  home!" 

229 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Well,  take  her!"  diplomatically  answered  his  sis- 
ter. "I  can  get  Abe's  niece  over  to  East  Donegal  fur 
one-seventy-five.  She  'd  be  glad  to  come!" 

Mr.  Getz  at  this  drew  in  his  sails  a  bit.  "I  '11  give 
her  one  more  chancet,"  he  compromised.  "But  I 
ain't  givin'  her  no  second  chancet  if  she  does  somepin 
again  where  she  ain't  got  darst  to  do.  Next  time  I 
hear  of  her  disobeyin'  me,  home  she  comes.  I  'd 
sooner  lose  the  money  than  have  her  spoilt  fur  me. 
Now  look-ahere,  Tillie,  you  go  get  them  new  caps  and 
bring  'em  here." 

Tillie  turned  away  to  obey. 

"Now,  Jake,  what  are  you  up  to?"  his  sister  de- 
manded as  the  girl  left  the  room. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  'd  leave  her  keep  them  caps  she 
stole  the  money  off  of  me  to  buy?"  Getz  retorted. 

' '  She  earnt  the  money ! ' '  maintained  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel. 

"The  money  was  n't  hern,  and  I  'd  sooner  throw 
them  caps  in  the  rag-bag  than  leave  her  wear  'em 
when  she  disobeyed  me  to  buy  'em." 

"Jake  Getz,  you  're  a  reg'lar  tyrant !  You  mind  me 
of  Herod  yet— and  of  Punshus  Palate !" 

"Ain't  I  followin'  Scripture  when  I  train  up  my 
child  to  obey  to  her  parent  ?  "  he  wanted  to  know. 

"Now  look-ahere,  Jake;  I  '11  give  you  them  fifty 
cents  and  make  a  present  to  Tillie  of  them  caps  if 
you  '11  leave  her  keep  'em." 

But  in  spite  of  his  yearning  for  the  fifty  cents,  Mr. 
Getz  firmly  refused  this  offer.  Paternal  discipline 
must  be  maintained  even  at  a  financial  loss.  Then, 

230 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

too,  penurious  and  saving  as  he  was,  he  was  strictly 
honest,  and  he  would  not  have  thought  it  right  to  let 
his  sister  pay  for  his  child's  necessary  wearing-ap- 
parel. 

"No,  Tillie  's  got  to  be  punished.  When  I  want 
her  to  have  new  caps,  I  '11  buy  'em  fur  her. ' ' 

Tillie  reentered  the  room  with  the  precious  bits  of 
linen  tenderly  wrapped  up  in  tissue  paper.  Her 
pallor  was  now  gone,  and  her  eyes  were  red  with 
crying.  She  came  to  her  father's  side  and  handed  him 
the  soft  bundle. 

" These  here  caps,"  he  said  to  her,  "mom  can  use 
fur  night-caps,  or  what.  When  you  buy  somepin  un- 
knownst  to  me,  Tillie,  I  ain't  leavin'  you  keep  it! 
Now  go  'long  back  to  your  dishes.  And  next  Satur- 
day, when  I  come,  I  want  to  find  them  clo'es  done,  do 
you  understand?" 

Tillie 's  eyes  followed  the  parcel  as  it  was  crushed 
ruthlessly  into  her  father's  coat  pocket — and  she  did 
not  heed  his  question. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Tillie?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  up  at  him  with  brim- 
ming eyes. 

His  sister,  watching  them  from  across  the  room,  saw 
in  the  man's  face  the  working  of  conflicting  feelings — 
his  stern  displeasure  warring  with  his  affection.  Mrs. 
Wackernagel  had  realized,  ever  since  Tillie  had  come  to 
live  with  her,  that  "Jake's"  brief  weekly  visits  to  his 
daughter  were  a  pleasure  to  the  hard  man;  and  not 
only  because  of  the  two  dollars  which  he  came  to  col- 
lect. Just  now,  she  could  see  how  he  hated  to  part 

U  231 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

from  her  in  anger.  Justice  having  been  meted  out 
in  the  form  of  the  crushed  and  forfeited  caps  in  his 
pocket,  he  would  fain  take  leave  of  the  girl  with  some 
expression  of  his  kindlier  feelings  toward  her. 

"Now  are  you  behavin'  yourself— like  a  good  girl- 
till  I  come  again?"  he  asked,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder. 

"Yes,  "she  said  dully. 

"Then  give  me  good-by. "  She  held  up  her  face 
and  submitted  to  his  kiss. 

"Good-by,  Em.  And  mind  you  stop  spoilin'  my 
girl  fur  me!" 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  away. 

And  Fairchilds,  an  unwilling  witness  to  the  father's 
brutality,  felt  every  nerve  in  his  body  tingle  with 
a  longing  first  to  break  the  head  of  that  brutal 
Dutchman,  and  then  to  go  and  take  little  Tillie  in  his 
arms  and  kiss  her.  To  work  off  his  feelings,  he  sprang 
up  from  the  settee,  put  on  his  hat,  and  flung  out  of  the 
house  to  walk  down  to  "the  krik." 

"Never  you  mind,  Tillie,"  her  aunt  consoled  her. 
"I  'm  goin'  in  town  next  Wednesday,  and  I  'm  buyin' 
you  some  caps  myself  fur  a  present." 

"Oh,  Aunty  Em,  but  maybe  you  'd  better  not  be 
so  good  to  me!"  Tillie  said,  dashing  away  the  tears 
as  she  industriously  rubbed  her  pans.  "It  was  my 
vanity  made  me  want  new  caps.  And  father's  taking 
them  was  maybe  the  Lord  punishing  my  vanity." 

"You  needed  new  caps — your  old  ones  was  wore  out. 
And  don't  you  be  judgin'  the  Lord  by  your  pop! 
Don't  try  to  stop  me — I  'm  buyin'  you  some  caps." 

232 


'Oh,  Aunty  Em,  I  love  you  like  I  've 
never  loved  any  one— except 
Miss  Margaret  and—'" 


Tillie  tells  a  lie 

Now  Tillie  knew  how  becoming  the  new  caps  were 
to  her,  and  her  soul  yearned  for  them  even  as  (she 
told  herself)  Israel  of  old  yearned  after  the  flesh-pots 
of  Egypt.  To  lose  them  was  really  a  bitter  disap- 
pointment to  her. 

But  Aunty  Em  would  spare  her  that  grief !  A  sud- 
den passionate  impulse  of  gratitude  and  love  toward 
her  aunt  made  her  do  a  most  unwonted  thing.  Tak- 
ing her  hands  from  her  dish-water,  she  dried  them 
hastily,  went  over  to  Mrs.  Waekernagel,  threw  her 
arms  about  her  neck,  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Aunty  Em,  I  love  you  like  I  Ve  never  loved 
any  one — except  Miss  Margaret  and — " 

She  stopped  short  as  she  buried  her  face  in  her 
aunt 's  motherly  bosom  and  clung  to  her. 

"And  who  else,  Tillie?"  Mrs.  Wackernagel  asked, 
patting  the  girl's  shoulder,  her  face  beaming  with 
pleasure  at  her  niece's  affectionate  demonstration. 

"No  one  else,  Aunty  Em." 

Tillie  drew  herself  away  and  again  returned  to  her 
work  at  the  dresser. 

But  all  the  rest  of  that  day  her  conscience  tortured 
her  that  she  should  have  told  this  lie. 

For  there  was  some  one  else. 


235 


XX 

TILLIE  IS  "SET   BACK*' 

ON  Sunday  morning,  in  spite  of  her  aunt's  protes- 
tations, Tillie  went  to  meeting  with  her  curls 
outside  her  cap. 

"They  '11  set  you  back!"  protested  Mrs.  Wacker- 
nagel,  in  great  trouble  of  spirit. 

' '  It  would  be  worse  to  be  deceitful  than  to  be  vain, ' ' 
Tillie  answered.  "If  I  am  going  to  let  my  hair  curl 
week-days,  I  won 't  be  a  coward  and  deceive  the  meet- 
ing about  myself." 

"But  whatever  made  you  take  it  into  your  head  to 
act  so  wain,  Tillie  ? ' '  her  bewildered  aunt  inquired  for 
the  hundredth  time.  "It  can't  be  fur  Absalom,  fur 
you  don't  take  to  him.  And,  anyways,  he  says  he 
wants  to  be  led  of  the  Spirit  to  give  hisself  up.  To  be 
sure,  I  hope  he  ain't  tempted  to  use  religion  as  a 
means  of  gettin'  the  girl  he  wants !" 

"I  know  I  'm  doing  wrong,  Aunty  Em,"  Tillie  re- 
plied sorrowfully.  "Maybe  the  meeting  to-day  will 
help  me  to  conquer  the  Enemy." 

She  and  her  aunt  realized  during  the  course  of  the 
morning  that  the  curls  were  creating  a  sensation.  An 
explanation  would  certainly  be  demanded  of  Tillie 
before  the  week  was  out. 


236 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

After  the  service,  they  did  not  stop  long  for  "socia- 
bility,"— the  situation  was  too  strained, — but  hurried 
out  to  their  buggy  as  soon  as  they  could  escape. 

Tillie  marveled  at  herself  as,  on  the  way  home,  she 
found  how  small  was  her  concern  about  the  disap- 
proval of  the  meeting,  and  even  about  her  sin  itself, 
before  the  fact  that  the  teacher  thought  her  curls 
adorable. 

Aunty  Em,  too,  marveled  as  she  perceived  the  girl 's 
strange  indifference  to  the  inevitable  public  disgrace 
at  the  hands  of  the  brethren  and  sisters.  Whatever 
was  the  matter  with  Tillie? 

At  the  dinner-table,  to  spare  Tillie 's  evident  embar- 
rassment (perhaps  because  of  the  teacher's  presence), 
Mrs.  Wackernagel  diverted  the  curiosity  of  the  family 
as  to  how  the  meeting  had  received  the  curls. 

"What  did  yous  do  all  while  we  was  to  meeting?" 
she  asked  of  her  two  daughters. 

"Me  and  Amanda  and  Teacher  walked  to  Buck- 
arts  Station,"  Rebecca  answered. 

"Did  yous,  now?" 

"Up  the  pike  a  piece  was  all  the  fu'ther  I  felt  fur 
goin',"  continued  Rebecca,  in  a  rather  injured  tone; 
"but  Amanda  she  was  so  fur  seein'  oncet  if  that  fellah 
with  those  black  mustache  was  at  the  blacksmith's 
shop  yet,  at  Buckarts !  I  tole  her  she  need  n  't  be 
makin'  up  to  him,  fur  he  's  keepin'  comp'ny  with 
Lizzie  Hershey!" 

"Say,  mom,"  announced  Amanda,  ignoring  her 
sister's  rebuke,  "I  stopped  in  this  morning  to  see  Liz- 
zie Hershey,  and  she  's  that  spited  about  Teacher's 

237 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

comin'  here  instead  of  to  their  place  that  she  never  so 
much  as  ast  me  would  I  spare  my  hat!" 

"Now  look!'*  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wackernagel. 

•'And  when  I  said,  after  while,  'Now  I  must  go/ 
she  was  that  unneighborly  she  never  ast  me,  'What  's 
your  hurry?'  ' 

"Was  she  that  spited!"  said  Mrs.  Wackernagel, 
half  pityingly.  "Well,  it  was  just  like  Sister  Jennie 
Hershey,  if  she  did  n't  want  Teacher  stayin'  there, 
to  tell  him  right  out.  Some  ain't  as  honest.  Some 
talks  to  please  the  people." 

"What  fur  sermont  did  yous  have  this  morning?" 
asked  Mr.  Wackernagel,  his  mouth  full  of  chicken. 

"We  had  Levi  Harnish.  He  preached  good,"  said 
Mrs.  Wackernagel.  "Ain't  he  did,  Tillie?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Tillie,  coloring  with  the  guilty  con- 
sciousness that  scarcely  a  word  of  that  sermon  had  she 
heard. 

"I  like  to  hear  a  sermont,  like  hisn,  that  does  me 
good  to  my  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Wackernagel. 

"Levi  Harnish,  he  's  a  learnt  preacher,"  said  her 
husband,  turning  to  Fairchilds.  "He  reads  wonder- 
ful much.  And  he  's  always  thinkin '  so  earnest  about 
his  learnin'  that  I  've  saw  him  walk  along  the  street 
in  Lancaster  a 'ready  and  a 'most  walk  into  people!" 

"He  certainly  can  stand  on  the  pulpit  elegant!" 
agreed  Mrs.  Wackernagel.  "Why,  he  can  preach  his 
whole  sermont  with  the  Bible  shut,  yet !  And  he  can 
put  out  elocution  that  it  's  something  turrible ! ' ' 

"You  are  not  a  Mennonite,  are  you?"  Fairchilds 
asked  of  the  landlord. 

238 


Tillie  is  « set  back" 

''No,"  responded  Mr.  Wackernagel,  with  a  shrug. 
"I  bothered  a  whole  lot  at  one  time  about  religion. 
Now  I  never  bother." 

"We  had  Silas  Trout  to  lead  the  singin'  this  morn- 
ing," continued  Mrs.  Wackernagel.  "I  wisht  I  could 
sing  by  note,  like  him.  I  don't  know  notes ;  I  just  sing 
by  random." 

"Where  's  Doc,  anyhow?"  suddenly  inquired 
Amanda,  for  the  doctor's  place  at  the  table  was 
vacant. 

"He  was  fetched  away.  Mary  Holzapple's  mister 
come  fur  him ! ' '  Mr.  Wackernagel  explained,  with  a 
meaning  nod. 

"I  say!"  cried  Mrs.  Wackernagel.  "So  soon 
a 'ready!  And  last  week  it  was  Sue  Hess!  Doc's 
always  gettin'  fetched!  Nothin'  but  babies  and 
babies!" 

Tillie,  whose  eyes  were  always  on  the  teacher,  ex- 
cept when  he  chanced  to  glance  her  way,  noted  won- 
deringly  the  blush  that  suddenly  covered  his  face  and 
neck  at  this  exclamation  of  her  aunt's.  In  the  prim- 
itive simplicity  of  her  mind,  she  could  see  nothing 
embarrassing  in  the  mere  statement  of  any  fact  of 
natural  history. 

"Here  comes  Doc  now !"  cried  Reb'ecca,  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  kitchen  door.  ' '  Hello,  Doc ! ' '  she  cried 
as  he  came  into  the  dining-room.  ' '  What  is  it  ? " 

"Twin  girls !"  the  doctor  proudly  announced,  going 
over  to  the  stove  to  warm  his  hands  after  his  long 
drive. 

"My  lands!"  exclaimed  Amanda. 

239 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Now  what  do  you  think!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Wack- 
trnagel. 

"How  's  missus?"  Rebecca  inquired. 

"Doin'  fine!  But  mister  he  ain't  feelin'  so  well. 
He  wanted  a  boy— or  boys,  as  the  case  might  be.  It  's 
gettin'  some  cold  out,"  he  added,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  holding  them  to  the  fire. 

That  evening,  when  again  Fairchilds  was  unable  to 
have  a  chat  alone  with  Tillie,  because  of  Absalom 
Puntz's  unfailing  appearance  at  the  hotel,  he  began 
to  think,  in  his  chagrin,  that  he  must  have  exaggerated 
the  girl's  superiority,  since  week  after  week  she  could 
endure  the  attentions  of  "that  lout." 

He  could  not  know  that  it  was  for  his  sake — to 
keep  him  in  his  place  at  William  Penn — that  poor  Til- 
lie  bore  the  hated  caresses  of  Absalom. 

That  next  week  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten 
'%  Tillie.  It  stood  out,  in  all  the  years  that  followed, 
as  a  week  of  wonder— in  which  were  revealed  to  her 
the  depths  and  the  heights  of  ecstatic  bliss — a  bliss 
which  so  filled  her  being  that  she  scarcely  gave  a 
thought  to  the  disgrace  hanging  over  her — her  sus- 
pension from  meeting. 

The  fact  that  Tillie  and  the  teacher  sat  together, 
now,  every  evening,  called  forth  no  surmises  or  suspi- 
cions from  the  Wackernagels,  for  the  teacher  was 
merely  helping  Tillie  with  some  studies.  The  family 
was  charged  to  guard  the  fact  from  Mr.  Getz. 

The  lessons  seldom  lasted  beyond  the  early  bedtime 
of  the  family,  for  as  soon  as  Tillie  and  Fairchilds 
found  the  sitting-room  abandoned  to  their  private  use, 

240 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

the  school-books  were  put  aside.  They  had  somewhat 
to  say  to  each  other. 

Tillie 's  story  of  her  long  friendship  with  Miss  Mar- 
garet, which  she  related  to  Fairchilds,  made  him  bet- 
ter understand  much  about  the  girl  that  had  seemed 
inexplicable  in  view  of  her  environment;  while  her 
wonder  at  and  sympathetic  interest  in  his  own  story 
of  how  he  had  come  to  apply  for  the  school  at  New 
Canaan  both  amused  and  touched  him. 

' '  Do  you  never  have  any  doubts,  Tillie,  of  the  truth 
of  your  creed?"  he  asked  curiously,  as  they  sat  one 
evening  at  the  sitting-room  table,  the  school-books  and 
the  lamp  pushed  to  one  end. 

He  had  several  times,  in  this  week  of  intimacy, 
found  it  hard  to  reconcile  the  girl's  fine  intelligence 
and  clear  thought  in  some  directions  with  her  reli- 
gious superstition.  He  hesitated  to  say  a  word  to 
disturb  her  in  her  apparently  unquestioning  faith, 
though  he  felt  she  was  worthy  of  a  better  creed  than 
this  impossibly  narrow  one  of  the  New  Mennonites. 
"She  is  n't  ready  yet,"  he  had  thought,  "to  take  hold 
of  a  larger  idea  of  religion." 

"I  have  sometimes  thought,"  she  said  earnestly, 
"that  if  the  events  which  are  related  in  the  Bible 
should  happen  now,  we  would  not  credit  them.  An 
infant  born  of  a  virgin,  a  star  leading  three  travelers, 
a  man  who  raised  the  dead  and  claimed  to  be  God — 
we  would  think  the  folks  who  believed  these  things 
were  ignorant  and  superstitious.  And  because  they 
happened  so  long  ago,  and  are  in  the  Book  which  we 
are  told  came  from  God,  we  believe.  It  is  very 

241 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

strange!  Sometimes  my  thoughts  trouble  me.  I  try 
hard  not  to  leave  such  thoughts  come  to  me." 

"Let,  Tillie,  not  'leave.'  " 

"Will  I  ever  learn  not  to  get  my  'leaves'  and  'lets* 
mixed!"  sighed  Tillie,  despairingly. 

"Use  'let'  whenever  you  find  'leave'  on  the  end  of 
your  tongue,  and  vice  versa,"  he  advised,  with  a  smile. 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.    "Are  you  joking?" 

"Indeed,  no!    I  could  n't  give  you  a  better  rule." 

"There  's  another  thing  I  wish  you  would  tell  me, 
please,"  she  said,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"Well?" 

"I  can't  call  you  'Mr.'  Fairchilds,  because  such 
complimentary  speech  is  forbidden  to  us  New  Men- 
nonites.  It  would  come  natural  to  me  to  call  you 
'Teacher,'  but  you  would  think  that  what  you  call 
'provincial.'  ' 

"But  you  say  'Miss'  Margaret." 

' '  I  could  not  get  out  of  the  way  of  it,  because  I  had 
called  her  that  so  many  years  before  I  gave  myself 
up.  That  makes  it  seem  different.  But  you — what 
must  I  call  you?" 

"I  don't  see  what  's  left — unless  you  call  me 
'Say'!" 

"I  must  have  something  to  call  you,"  she  pleaded. 
"Would  you  mind  if  I  called  you  by  your  Christian 
name?" 

"I  should  like  nothing  better." 

He  drew  forward  a  volume  of  Mrs.  Browning's 
poems  which  lay  among  his  books  on  the  table,  opened 
it  at  the  fly-leaf,  and  pointed  to  his  name. 

242 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

' '  '  Walter '  f "  read  Tillie.    ' '  But  I  thought- ' ' 

"It  was  Pestalozzi?  That  was  only  my  little  joke. 
My  name  's  Walter." 

On  the  approach  of  Sunday,  Fairchilds  questioned 
her  one  evening  about  Absalom. 

"Will  that  lad  be  taking  up  your  whole  Sunday 
evening  again  ? "  he  demanded. 

She  told  him,  then,  why  she  suffered  Absalom's  un- 
welcome attentions.  It  was  in  order  that  she  might 
use  her  influence  over  him  to  keep  the  teacher  in  his 
place. 

' '  But  I  can 't  permit  such  a  thing ! "  he  vehemently 
protested.  "Tillie,  I  am  touched  by  your  kindness 
and  self-sacrifice !  But,  dear  child,  I  trust  I  am  man 
enough  to  hold  my  own  here  without  your  suffering 
for  me !  You  must  not  do  it. ' ' 

"You  don't  know  Nathaniel  Puntz !"  She  shook  her 
head.  "Absalom  will  never  forgive  you,  and,  at  a 
word  from  him,  his  father  would  never  rest  until  he 
had  got  rid  of  you.  You  see,  none  of  the  directors 
like  you— they  don't  understand  you— they  say  you 
are  'too  tony.'  And  then  your  methods  of  teaching — 
they  are  n't  like  those  of  the  Millersville  Normal 
teachers  we  've  had,  and  therefore  are  unsound!  I 
discovered  last  week,  when  I  was  out  home,  that  my 
father  is  very  much  opposed  to  you.  They  all  felt 
just  so  to  Miss  Margaret. ' ' 

"I  see.  Nevertheless,  you  shall  not  bear  my  bur- 
dens. And  don't  you  see  it  's  not  just  to  poor  Absa- 
lom? You  can't  marry  him,  so  you  ought  not  to 
encourage  him." 

243 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"'If  I  refused  to  le — let  Absalom  come,  you  would 
irot  remain  a  month  at  New  Canaan, ' '  was  her  answer. 

"But  it  is  n't  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me 
to  stay  at  New  Canaan !  I  need  not  starve  if  I  lose  my 
position  here.  There  are  better  places." 

Tillie  gazed  down  upon  the  chenille  table-cover,  and 
did  not  speak.  She  could  not  tell  him  that  it  did  seem 
to  her  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  have  him  stay. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Tillie,  you  could  shake  off  Absalom 
through  your  father's  objections  to  his  attentions. 
The  fellow  could  not  blame  you  for  that. ' ' 

"But  don't  you  see  I  must  keep  him  by  me,  in  order 
to  protect  you." 

"My  dear  little  girl,  that  's  rough  on  Absalom;  and 
I  'm  not  sure  it  's  worthy  of  you." 

"But  you  don't  understand.  You  think  Absalom 
will  be  hurt  in  his  feelings  if  I  refuse  to  marry  him. 
But  I  've  told  him  all  along  I  won't  marry  him.  And 
it  is  n't  his  feelings  that  are  concerned.  He  only 
wants  a  good  housekeeper." 

Fairchilds's  eyes  rested  on  the  girl  as  she  sat  be- 
fore him  in  the  fresh  bloom  of  her  maidenhood,  and 
he  realized  what  he  knew  she  did  not — that  unsenti- 
mental, hard-headed,  and  practical  as  Absalom  might 
be,  if  she  allowed  him  the  close  intimacy  of  "setting- 
up"  with  her,  the  fellow  must  suffer  in  the  end  in 
not  winning  her.  But  the  teacher  thought  it  wise 
to  make  no  further  comment,  as  he  saw,  at  any  rate, 
that  he  could  not  move  her  in  her  resolution  to  defend 
him. 

And  there  was  another  thing  that  he  saw.  The 
244 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

extraneous  differences  between  himself  and  Tillie,  and 
even  the  radical  differences  of  breeding  and  heredity 
which,  he  had  assumed  from  the  first,  made  any  least 
romance  or  sentiment  on  the  part  of  either  of  them, 
unthinkable,  however  much  they  might  enjoy  a  good 
comradeship, — all  these  differences  had  strangely  sunk 
out  of  sight  as  he  had,  from  day  to  day,  grown  in 
touch  with  the  girl's  real  self,  and  he  found  himself 
unable  to  think  of  her  and  himself  except  in  that 
deeper  sense  in  which  her  soul  met  his.  Any  other 
consideration  of  their  relation  seemed  almost  gro- 
tesque. This  was  his  feeling — but  his  reason  strug- 
gled with  his  feeling  and  bade  him  beware.  Suppose 
that  she  too  should  come  to  feel  that  with  the  meet- 
ing of  their  spirits  the  difference  in  their  conditions 
melted  away  like  ice  in  the  sunshine.  Would  not  the 
result  be  fraught  with  tragedy  for  her  ?  For  himself, 
he  was  willing,  for  the  sake  of  his  present  pleasure, 
to  risk  a  future  wrestling  with  his  impracticable  sen- 
timents ;  but  what  must  be  the  cost  of  such  a  struggle 
to  a  frail,  sensitive  girl,  with  no  compensations  what- 
ever in  any  single  phase  of  her  life?  Clearly,  he  was 
treading  on  dangerous  ground.  He  must  curb  him- 
self. 

Before  another  Sunday  came  around,  the  ax  had 
fallen — the  brethren  came  to  reason  with  Tillie,  and 
finding  her  unable  to  say  she  was  sincerely  repentant 
and  would  amend  her  vain  and  carnal  deportment, 
she  was,  in  the  course  of  the  next  week,  "set  back." 

"I  would  be  willing  to  put  back  the  curls,"  sh« 
said  to  her  aunt,  who  also  reasoned  with  her  in  pri- 

247 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

vate;  "but  it  would  avail  nothing.  For  my  heart  is 
still  vain  and  carnal.  'Man  looketh  upon  the  outward 
appearance,  but  God  looketh  on  the  heart.'  ' 

"Then,  Tillie,"  said  her  aunt,  her  kindly  face  pale 
with  distress  in  the  resolution  she  had  taken,  "you  '11 
have  to  go  home  and  stay.  You  can't  stay  here  as 
long  as  you  're  not  holding  out  in  your  professions." 

Tillie 's  face  went  white,  and  she  gazed  into  her 
aunt's  resolute  countenance  with  anguish  in  her  own. 

"I  'd  not  do  it  to  send  you  away,  Tillie,  if  I  could 
otherwise  help  it.  But  look  how  inconwenient  it 
would  be  havin'  you  here  to  help  work,  and  me  not 
havin'  dare  to  talk  or  eat  with  you.  I  'm  not  obey  in' 
to  the  'Rules'  now  in  talkin'  to  you.  But  I  tole  the 
brethren  I  'd  only  speak  to  you  long  enough  to  reason 
with  you  some— and  then,  if  that  did  n't  make  no- 
thin',  I  'd  send  you  home." 

The  Rules  forbade  the  members  to  sit  at  table  or 
hold  any  unnecessary  word  of  communication  with  one 
who  had  failed  to  "hold  out,"  and  who  had  in  con- 
sequence been  "set  back."  Tillie,  in  her  strange  in- 
difference to  the  disgrace  of  being  set  back,  had  not 
foreseen  her  inevitable  dismissal  from  her  aunt's  em- 
ploy. She  recognized,  now,  with  despair  in  her  soul, 
that  Aunty  Em  could  not  do  otherwise  than  send  her 
home. 

"When  must  I  go,  Aunty  Em?" 

"As  soon  as  you  make  your  mind  up  you  ain't  goin' 
to  repent  of  your  carnal  deportment. ' ' 

* '  I  can 't  repent,  Aunty  Em ! "  Tillie 's  voice  sounded 
hollow  to  herself  as  she  spoke. 

248 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

"Then,  Tillie,  you  're  got  to  go  to-morrow.  I  '11 
have  to  get  my  niece  from  East  Donegal  over." 

It  sounded  to  Tillie  like  the  crack  of  doom. 

The  doctor,  who  was  loath  to  have  her  leave,  who 
held  her  interests  at  heart,  and  who  knew  what  she 
would  forfeit  in  losing  the  help  which  the  teacher 
was  giving  her  daily  in  her  studies,  undertook  to 
add  his  expostulations  to  that  of  the  brethern  and 
sisters. 

"By  gum,  Tillie,  slick  them  swanged  curls  back,  if 
they  don't  suit  the  taste  of  the  meeting!  Are  you 
willin'  to  leave  go  your  nice  education,  where  you  're 
gettin',  fur  a  couple  of  damned  curls?  I  don't  know 
what  's  got  into  you  to  act  so  blamed  stubborn  about 
keepin'  your  hair  strubbled  'round  your  face!" 

"But  the  vanity  would  still  be  in  my  heart  even  if 
I  did  brush  them  back.  And  I  don't  want  to  be  de- 
ceitful." 

"Och,  come  now,"  urged  the  doctor,  "just  till 
you  're  got  your  certificate  a 'ready  to  teach!  That 
would  n't  be  long.  Then,  after  that,  you  can  be  as 
undeceitful  as  you  want." 

But  Tillie  could  not  be  brought  to  view  the  matter 
in  this  light. 

She  did  not  sit  at  table  with  the  family  that  day, 
for  that  would  have  forced  her  aunt  to  stay  away  from 
the  table.  Mrs.  Wackernagel  could  break  bread  with- 
out reproach  with  all  her  unconverted  household ;  but 
not  with  a  backslider — for  the  prohibition  was  in- 
tended as  a  discipline,  imposed  in  all  love,  to  bring 
the  recalcitrant  member  back  into  the  fold. 

249 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

That  afternoon,  Tillie  and  the  teacher  took  a  walk 
together  in  the  snow-covered  woods. 

"It  all  seems  so  extraordinary,  so  inexplicable!" 
Fairchilds  repeated  over  and  over.  Like  all  the  rest 
of  the  household,  he  could  not  be  reconciled  to  her 
going.  His  regret  was,  indeed,  greater  than  that 
of  any  of  the  rest,  and  rather  surprised  himself.  The 
pallor  of  Tillie 's  face  and  the  anguish  in  her  eyes  he 
attributed  to  the  church  discipline  she  was  suffering. 
He  never  dreamed  how  wholly  and  absolutely  it  was 
for  him. 

"Is  it  any  stranger,"  Tillie  asked,  her  low  voice 
full  of  pain,  "than  that  your  uncle  should  send  you 
away  because  of  your  imbelief?"  This  word,  "un- 
belief, "  stood  for  a  very  definite  thing  in  New  Ca- 
naan—  a  lost  and  hopeless  condition  of  the  soul.  "It 
seems  to  me,  the  idea  is  the  same,"  said  Tillie. 

"Yes,"  acknowledged  Fairchilds,  "of  course  you 
are  right.  Intolerance,  bigotry,  narrowness— they  are 
the  same  the  world  over — and  stand  for  ignorance 
always. ' ' 

Tillie  silently  considered  his  words.  It  had  not  oc- 
curred to  her  to  question  the  perfect  justice  of  the 
meeting's  action. 

Suddenly  she  saw  in  the  path  before  her  a  half- 
frozen,  fluttering  sparrow.  They  both  paused,  and 
Tillie  stooped,  gently  took  it  up,  and  folded  it  in  her 
warm  shawl.  As  she  felt  its  throbbing  little  body 
against  her  hand,  she  thought  of  herself  in  the  hand  of 
God.  She  turned  and  spoke  her  thought  to  Fairchilds. 

"Could  I  possibly  hurt  this  little  bird,  which  is  so 

250 


Tillie  is  "set  back" 

entirely  at  my  mercy  ?  Could  I  judge  it,  condemn  and 
punish  it,  for  some  mistake  or  wrong  or  weakness  it 
had  committed  in  its  little  world  ?  And  could  God  be 
less  kind,  less  merciful  to  me  than  I  could  be  to  this 
little  bird  ?  Could  he  hold  my  soul  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand  and  vivisect  it  to  judge  whether  its  errors  were 
worthy  of  his  divine  anger?  He  knows  how  weak 
and  ignorant  I  am.  I  will  not  fear  him,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  shining.  "I  will  trust  myself  in  his  power— 
and  believe  in  his  love." 

"The  New  Mennonite  creed  won't  hold  her  long," 
thought  Fairchilds. 

"Our  highest  religious  moments,  Tillie,"  he  said, 
"come  to  us,  not  through  churches,  nor  even  through 
Bibles.  They  are  the  moments  when  we  are  most  re- 
ceptive of  the  message  Nature  is  always  patiently  wait- 
ing to  speak  to  us — if  we  will  only  hear.  It  is  she 
alone  that  can  lead  us  to  see  God  face  to  face,  instead 
of  'through  another  man's  dim  thought  of  him.'  ' 

"Yes,"  agreed  Tillie,  "I  have  often  felt  more- 
more  religious,"  she  said,  after  an  instant's  hesitation, 
"when  I  've  been  walking  here  alone  in  the  woods,  or 
down  by  the  creek,  or  up  on  Chestnut  Hill— than  I 
could  feel  in  church.  In  church  we  hear  about  God, 
as  you  say,  through  other  men's  dim  thoughts  of  Him. 
Here,  alone,  we  are  with  him." 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  space,  Tillie  feeling 
with  mingled  bliss  and  despair  the  fascination  of  this 
parting  hour.  But  it  did  not  occur  to  Fairchilds  that 
her  departure  from  the  hotel  meant  the  end  of  their 
intercourse. 

251 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"I  shall  come  out  to  the  farm  to  see  you,  Tillie,  as 
often  as  you  will  let  me.  You  know,  I  've  no  one  else 
to  talk  to,  about  here,  as  I  talk  with  you.  What  a 
pleasure  it  has  been!  " 

"Oh,  but  father  will  never  le — let  me  spend  my  time 
with  you  as  I  did  at  the  hotel !  He  will  be  angry  at 
my  being  sent  home,  and  he  will  keep  me  constantly 
at  work  to  make  up  for  the  loss  it  is  to  him.  This  is 
our  last  talk  together!  " 

"I  '11  risk  your  father's  wrath,  Tillie.  You  don't 
suppose  I  'd  let  a  small  matter  like  that  stand  in  the 
way  of  our  friendship  ? ' ' 

"But  father  will  not  1 — let — me  spend  time  with 
you.  And  if  you  come  when  he  told  you  not  to  he 
would  put  you  out  of  William  Penn ! ' ' 

"I  'm  coming,  all  the  same,  Tillie." 

"Father  will  blame  me,  if  you  do." 

' '  Can 't  you  take  your  own  part,  Tillie  f  "  he  gravely 
asked.  "No,  no,"  he  hastily  added,  for  he  did  not 
forget  the  talk  he  had  overheard  about  the  new  caps, 
in  which  Mr.  Getz  had  threatened  personal  violence 
to  his  daughter.  ' '  I  know  you  must  not  suffer  for  my 
sake.  But  you  cannot  mean  that  we  are  not  to  meet 
at  all  after  this?" 

"Only  at  chance  times,"  faltered  Tillie ;  "that  is 
all." 

Very  simply  and  somewhat  constrainedly  they  said 
good-by  the  next  morning,  Fairchilds  to  go  to  his 
work  at  William  Penn  and  Tillie  to  drive  out  with  her 
Uncle  Abe  to  meet  her  father's  displeasure. 

252 


XXI 

"l    JLL  MARRY  HIM  TO-MORROW !" 

ME.  GETZ  had  plainly  given  Absalom  to  under- 
stand that  he  did  not  want  him  to  sit  up  with 
Tillie,  as  he  ''wasn't  leaving  her  marry."  Absalom 
had  answered  that  he  guessed  Tillie  would  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  that  when  she  was  ' '  eighteen  a  'ready. ' ' 
And  on  the  first  Sunday  evening  after  her  return 
home  he  had  boldly  presented  himself  at  the  farm. 

"That  's  where  you  '11  get  fooled,  Absalom,  fur 
she  's  been  raised  to  mind  her  pop!"  Mr.  Getz  had 
responded.  "If  she  disobeyed  to  my  word,  I  would  n't 
give  her  no  aus  styer.  I  guess  you  would  n't  marry  a 
girl  where  would  n't  bring  you  no  aus  styer !" 

Absalom,  who  was  frugal,  had  felt  rather  baffled  at 
this  threat.  Nevertheless,  here  he  was  again  on  Sun- 
day evening  at  the  farm  to  assure  Tillie  that  he  would 
stand  by  her,  and  that  if  she  was  not  restored  to  mem- 
bership in  the  meeting,  he  would  n't  give  himself  up, 
either. 

Mr.  GTetz  dared  not  go  to  the  length  of  forbidding 
Absalom  his  house,  for  that  would  have  meant  a  fam- 
ily feud  between  all  the  Getzes  and  all  the  Puntzes 
of  the  county.  He  could  only  insist  that  Tillie  "dis- 
hearten him,"  and  that  she  dismiss  him  not  later  than 

253 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

ten  o'clock.  To  almost  any  other  youth  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, such  opposition  would  have  proved  effec- 
tual. But  every  new  obstacle  seemed  only  to  increase 
Absalom's  determination  to  have  what  he  had  set  out 
to  get. 

To-night  he  produced  another  book,  which  he  said 
he  had  bought  at  the  second-hand  book-store  in  Lan- 
caster. 

"  'Cupid  and  Psyche,'  "  Tillie  read  the  title.  "Oh, 
Absalom,  thank  you.  This  is  lovely.  It  's  a  story 
from  Greek  mythology — I  've  been  hearing  some  of 
these  stories  from  the  teacher" — she  checked  herself, 
suddenly,  at  Absalom's  look  of  jealous  suspicion. 

"I  'm  wonderful  glad  you  ain't  in  there  at  the 
hotel  no  more,"  he  said.  ''I  had  n't  no  fair  chancet, 
with  Teacher  right  there  on  the  grounds." 

"Absalom,"  said  Tillie,  gravely,  with  a  little  air  of 
dignity  that  did  not  wholly  fail  to  impress  him,  "I 
insist  on  it  that  you  never  speak  of  the  teacher  in 
that  way  in  connection  with  me.  You  might  as  well 
speak  of  my  marrying  the  County  Superintendent! 
He  'd  be  just  as  likely  to  ask  me!" 

The  county  superintendent  of  public  instruction 
was  held  in  such  awe  that  his  name  was  scarcely  men- 
tioned in  an  ordinary  tone  of  voice. 

"As  if  there  's  no  difference  from  a  teacher  at 
William  Penn  to  the  county  superintendent!  You 
ain't  that  dumm,  Tillie!" 

"The  difference  is  that  the  teacher  at  William  Penn 
is  superior  in  every  way  to  the  county  superinten- 
dent!" 

254 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

She  spoke  impulsively,  and  she  regretted  her  words 
the  moment  they  were  uttered.  But  Absalom  only 
half  comprehended  her  meaning. 

"You  think  you  ain't  good  enough  fur  him,  and 
you  think  I  ain't  good  enough  fur  you!"  he  grum- 
bled. ' '  I  have  never  saw  such  a  funny  girl !  Well, ' ' 
he  nodded  confidently,  "you  '11  think  different  one  of 
these  here  days ! ' ' 

"You  must  not  cherish  any  false  hopes,  Absalom," 
Tillie  insisted  in  some  distress. 

"Well,  fur  why  don't  you  want  to  have  me?"  he 
demanded  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"Absalom," — Til  lie  tried  a  new  mode  of  discourage- 
ment,— "I  don't  want  to  get  married  because  I  don't 
want  to  be  a  farmer's  wife — they  have  to  work  too 
hard!" 

It  was  enough  to  drive  away  any  lover  in  the 
countryside,  and  for  a  moment  Absalom  was  stag- 
gered. 

"Well !"  he  exclaimed,  "a  woman  that  's  afraid  of 
work  ain't  no  wife  fur  me,  anyways!" 

Tillie 's  heart  leaped  high  for  an  instant  in  the  hope 
that  now  she  had  effectually  cooled  his  ardor.  But 
it  sank  again  as  she  recalled  the  necessity  of  retaining 
at  least  his  good-will  and  friendship,  that  she  might 
protect  the  teacher. 

"  Now,  Absalom,"  she  feebly  protested,  "  did  you 
ever  see  me  afraid  of  work?" 

"Well,  then,  if  you  ain't  afraid  of  workin',  what 
makes  you  talk  so  contrary?" 

"  I  don't  know.    Come,  let  me  read  this  nice  book 

255 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

you  've  brought  me,"  she  urged,  much  as  she  might 
have  tried  to  divert  one  of  her  little  sisters  or  bro- 
thers. 

"I  'd  ruther  just  set.  I  ain't  much  fur  readin'. 
Jake  Getz  he  says  he  's  goin'  to  chase  you  to  bed  at 
ten — and  ten  comes  wonderful  soon  Sundays.  Leave 
us  just  set." 

Tillie  well  understood  that  this  was  to  endure  Ab- 
salom's clownish  wooing.  But  for  the  sake  of  the 
cause,  she  said  to  herself,  she  would  conquer  her 
repugnance  and  bear  it. 

For  two  weeks  after  Tillie 's  return  home,  she  did 
not  once  have  a  word  alone  with  Fairchilds.  He  came 
several  times,  ostensibly  on  errands  from  her  aunt; 
but  on  each  occasion  he  found  her  hard  at  work  in 
her  father's  presence.  At  his  first  visit,  Tillie,  as 
he  was  leaving,  rose  from  her  corn-husking  in  the 
barn  to  go  with  him  to  the  gate,  but  her  father  in- 
terfered. 

"You  stay  where  you  're  at!" 

With  burning  face,  she  turned  to  her  work.  And 
Fairchilds,  carefully  suppressing  an  impulse  to  shake 
Jake  Getz  till  his  teeth  rattled,  walked  quietly  out  of 
the  gate  and  up  the  road. 

Her  father  was  more  than  usually  stern  and  ex- 
acting with  her  in  these  days  of  her  suspension  from 
meeting,  inasmuch  as  it  involved  her  dismissal  from 
the  hotel  and  the  consequent  loss  to  him  of  two  dollars 
a  week. 

As  for  Tillie,  she  found  a  faint  consolation  in  the 
fact  of  the  teacher's  evident  chagrin  and  indigna- 

256 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

tion  at  the  tyrannical  rule  which  forbade  intercourse 
between  them. 

At  stated  intervals,  the  brethren  came  to  reason 
with  her,  but  while  she  expressed  her  willingness 
to  put  her  curls  back,  she  would  not  acknowledge 
that  her  heart  was  no  longer  ''carnal  and  vain,"  and 
so  they  found  it  impossible  to  restore  her  to  favor. 

A  few  weeks  before  Christmas,  Absalom,  deciding 
that  he  had  imbibed  all  the  arithmetical  erudition  he 
could  hold,  stopped  school.  On  the  evening  that  he 
took  his  books  home,  he  gave  the  teacher  a  parting 
blow,  which  he  felt  sure  quite  avenged  the  outrageous 
defeat  he  had  suffered  at  his  hands  on  that  Sunday 
night  at  the  hotel. 

"Me  and  Tillie  's  promised.  It  ain't  put  out  yet, 
but  I  conceited  I  'd  better  tell  you,  so  's  you 
would  n't  be  wastin'  your  time  tryin'  to  make  up  to 
her." 

"You  and  Tillie  are  engaged  to  be  married?"  Fair- 
childs  incredulously  asked. 

"That  's  what!  As  good  as,  anyways.  I  always 
get  somepin  I  want  when  I  make  up  my  mind  oncet. ' ' 
And  he  grinned  maliciously. 

Pairchilds  pondered  the  matter  as,  with  depressed 
spirits,  he  walked  home  over  the  frozen  road. 

"No  wonder  the  poor  girl  yielded  to  the  pressure 
of  such  an  environment,"  he  mused.  "I  suppose  she 
thinks  Absalom's  rule  will  not  be  so  bad  as  her 
father's.  But  that  a  girl  like  Tillie  should  be  pushed 
to  the  wall  like  that — it  is  horrible !  And  yet — if 
she  were  worthy  a  better  fate  would  she  not  have  held 

257 


Tillie:  A  JVtennonite  Maid 

out?— it  is  too  bad,  it  is  unjust  to  her  'Miss  Margaret* 
that  she  should  give  up  now !  I  feel, ' '  he  sadly  told 
himself,  "disappointed  in  Tillie!" 

WHEN  the  notable  "Columbus  Celebration"  came  off 
in  New  Canaan,  in  which  event  several  schools  of  the 
township  united  to  participate,  and  which  was  at- 
tended by  the  entire  countryside,  as  if  it  were  a  fu- 
neral, Tillie  hoped  that  here  would  be  an  opportu- 
nity for  seeing  and  speaking  with  Walter  Fairchilds. 
But  in  this  she  was  bitterly  disappointed. 

It  was  not  until  a  week  later,  at  the  township  Insti- 
tute, which  met  at  New  Canaan,  and  which  was  also 
attended  by  the  entire  population,  that  her  deep  desire 
was  gratified. 

It  was  during  the  reading  of  an  address,  before  the 
Institute,  by  Miss  Spooner,  the  teacher  at  East  Done- 
gal, that  Fairchilds  deliberately  came  and  sat  by  Til- 
lie  in  the  back  of  the  school-room. 

Tillie 's  heart  beat  fast,  and  she  found  herself  doubt- 
ing the  reality  of  his  precious  nearness  after  the  long, 
dreary  days  of  hungering  for  him. 

She  dared  not  speak  to  him  while  Miss  Spooner 
held  forth,  and,  indeed,  she  feared  even  to  look  at 
him,  lest  curious  eyes  read  in  her  face  what  con- 
sciously she  strove  to  conceal. 

She  realized  his  restless  impatience  under  Miss 
Spooner 's  eloquence. 

"It  was  a  week  back  already,  we  had  our  Columbus 
Celebration, ' '  read  this  educator  of  Lancaster  County, 
genteelly  curving  the  little  finger  of  each  hand,  as  she 

258 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

held  her  address,  which  was  esthetically  tied  with  blue 
ribbon.  "It  was  an  inspiring  sight  to  see  those  one 
hundred  enthusiastic  and  paterotic  children  marching 
two  by  two,  led  by  their  equally  enthusiastic  and  pat- 
erotic  teachers !  Forming  a  semicircle  in  the  open  air, 
the  exercises  were  opened  by  a  song,  'O  my  Country/ 
sung  by  clear— r-r-ringing— childish  voices.  ..." 

It  was  the  last  item  on  the  program,  and  by  mu- 
tual and  silent  consent,  Tillie  and  Fairchilds,  at  the 
first  stir  of  the  audience,  slipped  out  of  the  school- 
house  together.  Tillie 's  father  was  in  the  audience, 
and  so  was  Absalom.  But  they  had  sat  far  forward, 
and  Tillie  hoped  they  had  not  seen  her  go  out  with  the 
teacher. 

"Let  us  hurry  over  to  the  woods,  where  we  can  be 
alone  and  undisturbed,  and  have  a  good  talk ! ' '  pro- 
posed Fairchilds,  his  face  showing  the  pleasure  he  felt 
in  the  meeting. 

After  a  few  minutes'  hurried  walking,  they  were 
able  to  slacken  their  pace  and  stroll  leisurely  through 
the  bleak  winter  forest. 

' '  Tillie,  Tillie ! "  he  said,  ' '  why  won 't  you  abandon 
this  'carnal'  life  you  are  leading,  be  restored  to  the 
approbation  of  the  brethren,  and  come  back  to  the 
hotel  ?  I  am  very  lonely  without  you. ' ' 

Tillie  could  scarcely  find  her  voice  to  answer,  for 
the  joy  that  filled  her  at  his  words— a  joy  so  full  that 
she  felt  but  a  very  faint  pang  at  his  reference  to  the 
ban  under  which  she  suffered.  She  had  thought  his 
failure  to  speak  to  her  at  the  "Celebration"  had  in- 
dicated indifference  or  forgetfulness.  But  now  that 

259 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

was  all  forgotten;  every  nerve  in  her  body  quivered 
with  happiness. 

He,  however,  at  once  interpreted  her  silence  to  mean 
that  he  had  wounded  her.  "Forgive  me  for  speaking 
so  lightly  of  what  to  you  must  be  a  sacred  and  serious 
matter.  God  knows,  my  own  experience — which,  as 
you  say,  was  not  unlike  your  own — was  sufficiently 
serious  to  me.  But  somehow,  I  can't  take  this  seri- 
ously— this  matter  of  your  pretty  curls!" 

"Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  you  take  any  per- 
son or  any  thing,  here,  seriously,"  she  half  smiled. 
"You  seem  to  me  to  be  always  mocking  at  us  a  little." 

' '  Mocking  ?  Not  so  bad  as  that.  And  never  at  you, 
Tillie." 

"You  were  sneering  at  Miss  Spooner,  were  n't 
you?" 

"Not  at  her;  at  Christopher  Columbus — though,  up 
to  the  time  of  that  celebration,  I  was  always  rather 
fond  of  the  discoverer  of  America.  But  now  let 
us  talk  of  you,  Tillie.  Allow  me  to  congratulate 
you!  " 

"What  for?" 

"True  enough.  I  stand  corrected.  Then  accept 
my  sincere  sympathy."  He  smiled  whimsically. 

Tillie  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and  their  pretty 
look  of  bewilderment  made  him  long  to  stoop  and 
snatch  a  kiss  from  her  lips.  But  he  resisted  the 
temptation. 

"I  refer  to  your  engagement  to  Absalom.  That  's 
one  reason  why  I  wanted  you  to  come  out  here  with 
me  this  afternoon — so  that  you  could  tell  me  about  it 

260 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

—and  explain  to  me  what  made  you  give  up  all  your 
plans.  What  will  your  Miss  Margaret  say?" 

Tillie  stopped  short,  her  cheeks  reddening. 

''What  makes  you  think  I  am  promised  to  Absa- 
lom?" 

"The  fact  is,  I  've  only  his  word  for  it." 

"He  told  you  that?" 

' '  Certainly.    Is  n  't  it  true  ? ' ' 

"Do  you  think  so  poorly  of  me?"  Tillie  asked  in 
a  low  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  "Tillie,  I  'm  sorry;  I 
ought  not  to  have  believed  it  for  an  instant ! ' ' 

"I  have  a  higher  ambition  in  life  than  to  settle 
down  to  take  care  of  Absalom  Puntz ! ' '  said  Tillie, 
fire  in  her  soft  eyes,  and  an  unwonted  vibration  in 
her  gentle  voice. 

"My  credulity  was  an  insult  to  you!" 

"Absalom  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  a  lie.  He  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  have  me,  so  he  thinks  it  is  all  as 
good  as  settled.  Sometimes  I  am  almost  afraid  he 
will  win  me  just  by  thinking  he  is  going  to." 

"Send  him  about  his  business!  Don't  keep  up  this 
folly,  dear  child ! ' ' 

"I  would  rather  stand  Absalom,"  she  faltered, 
"than  stand  having  you  go  away." 

"But,  Tillie,"  he  turned  almost  fiercely  upon  her — 
"Tillie,  I  would  rather  see  you  dead  at  my  feet  than 
to  see  your  soul  tied  to  that  clod  of  earth ! ' ' 

A  wild  thrill  of  rapture  shot  through  Tillie 's  heart 
at  his  words.  For  an  instant  she  looked  up  at  him, 
her  soul  shining  in  her  eyes.  "Does  he — does  lie — 

261 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

care  that  much  what  happens  to  me?"  throbbed  in 
her  brain. 

For  the  first  time  Fairchilds  fully  realized,  with 
shame  at  his  blind  selfishness,  the  danger  and  the 
cruelty  of  his  intimate  friendship  with  this  little 
Mennonite  maid.  For  her  it  could  but  end  in  a  heart- 
break; for  him— "I  have  been  a  cad,  a  despicable  1 
cad ! "  he  told  himself  in  bitter  self-reproach.  "  If  I 
had  only  known!  But  now  it  's  too  late — unless — " 
In  his  mind  he  rapidly  went  over  the  simple  history 
of  their  friendship  as  they  walked  along;  and,  busy 
with  her  own  thought,  Tillie  did  not  notice  his  ab- 
straction. 

"Tillie,"  he  said  suddenly.  "Next  Saturday  there 
is  an  examination  of  applicants  for  certificates  at 
East  Donegal.  You  must  take  that  examination. 
You  are  perfectly  well  prepared  to  pass  it." 

"Oh,  do  you  really,  really  think  I  am?"  the  girl 
cried  breathlessly. 

"I  know  it.  The  only  question  is,  How  are  you 
going  to  get  off  to  attend  the  examination?" 

"Father  will  be  at  the  Lancaster  market  on  Satur- 
day morning ! ' ' 

' '  Then  I  '11  hire  a  buggy,  come  out  to  the  farm,  and 
carry  you  off ! " 

"No — ohj  no,  you  must  not  do  that.  Father  would 
itie  so  angry  with  you!" 

"You  can't  walk  to  East  Donegal.  It  's  six  miles 
away. ' ' 

"Let  me  think.— Uncle  Abe  would  do  anything  I 
asked  him— but  he  would  n't  have  time  to  leave  thp 

262 


"I  'II  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

hotel  Saturday  morning.  And  I  could  n't  make  him 
or  Aunty  Em  understand  that  I  was  educated  enough 
to  take  the  examination.  But  there  's  the  Doc!" 

' '  Of  course ! ' '  cried  Fairchilds.  ' '  The  Doc  is  n  't 
afraid  of  the  whole  county !  Shall  I  tell  him  you  '11 
go  if  he  '11  come  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes!" 

"Good!  I  '11  undertake  to  promise  for  him  that 
he  '11  be  there!" 

"When  father  comes  home  from  market  and  finds 
me  gone!"  Tillie  said — but  there  was  exultation,  ra- 
ther than  fear,  in  her  voice. 

"When  you  show  him  your  certificate,  won't  that 
appease  him?  When  he  realizes  how  much  more  you 
can  earn  by  teaching  than  by  working  for  your  aunt, 
especially  as  he  bore  none  of  the  expense  of  giving 
you  your  education?  It  was  your  own  hard  labor, 
and  none  of  his  money,  that  did  it !  And  now  I  sup- 
pose he  '11  get  all  the  profit  of  it!"  Fairchilds  could 
not  quite  keep  down  the  rising  indignation  in  his 
voice. 

"No,"  said  Tillie,  quietly,  though  the  color  burned 
in  her  face.  ' '  Walter !  I  'm  going  to  refuse  to  give 
father  my  salary  if  I  am  elected  to  a  school.  I  mean 
to  save  my  money  to  go  to  the  Normal — where  Miss 
Margaret  is. ' ' 

' '  So  long  as  you  are  under  age,  he  can  take  it  from 
you,  Tillie." 

' '  If  the  school  I  teach  is  near  enough  for  me  to  live 
at  home,  I  '11  pay  my  board.  More  than  that  I  won't 
do." 

265 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  help  yourself?" 

"I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind,  yet,  how  I  'm  going 
to  do  it.  It  will  be  the  hardest  struggle  I  've  ever 
had — to  stand  out  against  him  in  such  a  thing,"  Til- 
lie  continued;  "but  I  will  not  be  weak,  I  will  not!  I 
have  studied  and  worked  all  these  years  in  the  hope 
of  a  year  at  the  Normal — with  Miss  Margaret.  And 
I  won't  falter  now!" 

Before  he  could  reply  to  her  almost  impassioned 
earnestness,  they  were  startled  by  the  sound  of 
footsteps  behind  them  in  the  woods — the  heavy 
steps  of  men.  Involuntarily,  they  both  stopped 
short,  Tillie  with  the  feeling  of  one  caught  in  a 
stolen  delight;  and  Fairchilds  with  mingled  annoy- 
ance at  the  interruption,  and  curiosity  as  to  who 
might  be  wandering  in  this  unfrequented  patch  of 
woods. 

"I  seen  'em  go  out  up  in  here!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Absalom.  The  answer  came  in 
the  harsh,  indignant  tones  of  Mr.  Getz.  "Next  time 
I  leave  her  go  to  a  Instytoot  or  such  a  Columbus 
Sallybration,  she  '11  stay  at  home!  Wastin'  time 
walkin '  'round  in  the  woods  with  that  dude  teacher ! 
—and  on  a  week-day,  too!" 

Tillie  looked  up  at  Fairchilds  with  an  appeal  that 
went  to  his  heart.  Grimly  he  waited  for  the  two. 

"So  here  's  where  you  are!"  cried  Mr.  Getz,  strid- 
ing up  to  them,  and,  before  Fairchilds  could  prevent 
it,  he  had  seized  Tillie  by  the  shoulder.  "What  you 
mean,  runnin'  off  up  here,  heh?  What  you  mean?" 
he  demanded,  shaking  her  with  all  his  cruel  strength. 

266 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

' '  Stop  that,  you  brute ! ' '  Fairchilds,  unable  to  con- 
trol his  fury,  drew  back  and  struck  the  big  man 
squarely  on  the  chest.  Getz  staggered  back,  amaze- 
ment at  this  unlooked-for  attack  for  a  moment  get- 
ting the  better  of  his  indignation.  He  had  expected 
to  find  the  teacher  cowed  with  fear  at  being  dis- 
covered by  a  director  and  a  director's  son  in  a  situ- 
ation displeasing  to  them. 

"Let  the  child  alone,  you  great  coward — or  I  '11 
horsewhip  you ! ' ' 

Getz  recovered  himself.  His  face  was  black  with 
passion.  He  lifted  the  horsewhip  which  he  carried. 

"You  '11  horsewhip  me — me,  Jake  Getz,  that  can 
put  you  off  William  Penn  to-morrow  if  I  want !  Will 
you  do  it  with  this  here?"  he  demanded,  grasping 
the  whip  more  tightly  and  lifting  it  to  strike — but 
before  it  could  descend,  Fairchilds  wrenched  it  out  of 
his  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  "if  you  dare  to  touch  that 
child  again,  you  shameless  dog ! ' ' 

Tillie,  with  anguished  eyes,  stood  motionless  as 
marble,  while  Absalom,  with  clenched  fists,  awaited  his 
opportunity. 

"If  I  dare ! ' '  roared  Getz.  "If  I  have  dare  to 
touch  my  own  child!"  He  turned  to  Tillie.  "Come 
along, ' '  he  exclaimed,  giving  her  a  cuff  with  his  great 
paw ;  and  instantly  the  whip  came  down  with  sting- 
ing swiftness  on  his  wrist.  With  a  bellow  of  pain, 
Getz  turned  on  Fairchilds,  and  at  the  same  moment, 
Absalom  sprang  on  him  from  behind,  and  with  one 
blow  of  his  brawny  arm  brought  the  teacher  to  the 

267 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

ground.  Getz  sprawled  over  his  fallen  antagonist  and 
snatched  his  whip  from  him. 

"Come  on,  Absalom— we  '11  learn  him  oneet!"  he 
cried  fiercely.  "We  '11  learn  him  what  horsewhip- 
pin'  is!  We  '11  give  him  a  lickin'  he  won't  forget!" 

Absalom  laughed  aloud  in  his  delight  at  this  chance 
to  avenge  his  own  defeat  at  the  hands  of  the  teacher, 
and  with  clumsy  speed  the  two  men  set  about  binding 
the  feet  of  the  half-senseless  Fairchilds  with  Ab- 
salom's suspenders. 

Tillie  felt  herself  spellbound,  powerless  to  move  or 
to  cry  out. 

"Now!"  cried  Getz  to  Absalom,  "git  back,  and 
I  '11  give  it  to  him!" 

The  teacher,  stripped  of  his  two  coats  and  bound 
hand  and  foot,  was  rolled  over  on  his  face.  He  ut 
tered  no  word  of  protest,  though  they  all  saw  that  ne 
had  recovered  consciousness.  The  truth  was,  he  sim- 
ply recognized  the  uselessness  of  demurring. 

"Warm  him  up,  so  he  don't  take  cold!"  shouted 
Absalom— and  even  as  he  spoke,  Jake  Getz's  heavy 
arm  brought  the  lash  down  upon  Fairchilds 's  back. 

At  the  spiteful  sound,  life  came  back  to  Tillie.  Like 
a  wild  thing,  she  sprang  between  them,  seized  her  fa- 
ther's arm  and  hung  upon  it.  "Listen  to  me!  Lis- 
ten! Father!  If  you  strike  him  again,  I  'II  marry 
Absalom  to-morrow!" 

By  inspiration  she  had  hit  upon  the  one  argument 
that  would  move  him. 

Her  father  tried  to  shake  her  off,  but  she  clung  to 
his  arm  with  the  strength  of  madness,  knowing  that  if 

268 


"I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow!" 

she  could  make  him  grasp,  even  in  his  passionate 
anger,  the  real  import  of  her  threat,  he  would  yield 
to  her. 

"I  '11  marry  Absalom!  I  '11  marry  him  to-mor- 
row!" she  repeated. 

"You  darsent—  you  ain't  of  age!  Let  go  my  arm, 
or  I  '11  slap  you  ag'in!" 

"I  shall  be  of  age  in  three  months!  I  '11  marry 
Absalom  if  you  go  on  with  this ! ' ' 

"That  suits  me!"  cried  Absalom.  "Keep  on  with 
it,  Jake!" 

' '  If  you  do,  I  '11  marry  him  to-morrow ! ' ' 

There  was  a  look  in  Tillie's  eyes  and  a  ring  in  her 
voice  that  her  father  had  learned  to  know.  Tillie 
would  do  what  she  said. 

And  here  was  Absalom  "siding  along  with  her'* 
in  her  unfilial  defiance !  Jacob  Getz  wavered.  He  saw 
no  graceful  escape  from  his  difficulty. 

"Look-ahere,  Tillie!  If  I  don't  lick  this  here  fel- 
ler, I  '11  punish  you  when  I  get  you  home!" 

Tillie  saw  that  she  had  conquered  him,  and  that 
the  teacher  was  safe.  She  loosed  her  hold  of  her  fa- 
ther's arm  and,  dropping  on  her  knees  beside  Fair- 
childs,  began  quickly  to  loosen  his  bonds.  Her  father 
did  not  check  her. 

"Jake  Getz,  you  ain't  givin'  in  that  easy?"  de- 
manded Absalom,  angrily. 

"She  'd  up  and  do  what  she  says!     I  know  her! 
And  I  ain't  leavin'  her  marry!    You  just  wait"— he 
turned  threateningly  to   Tillie   as  she  knelt  on  the 
ground— "till  I  get  you  home  oncet!" 
269 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

Fairchilds  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  drawing  Tillie 
up  from  the  ground,  he  held  her  two  hands  in  his  as  he 
turned  to  confront  his  enemies. 

"You  call  yourselves  men — you  cowards  and  bul- 
lies! And  you!"  he  turned  his  blazing  eyes  upon 
Getz,  "you  would  work  off  your  miserable  spite  on 
a  weak  girl — who  can't  defend  herself!  Dare  to 
touch  a  hair  of  her  head  and  I  '11  break  your  damned 
head  and  every  bone  in  your  body!  Now  take  your- 
selves off,  both  of  you,  you  curs,  and  leave  us  alone ! ' ' 

"My  girl  goes  home  along  with  me!"  retorted  the 
furious  Getz.  '"'And  you — you  '11  lose  your  job  at  next 
Board  Meetin',  Saturday  night !  So  you  might  as  well 
pack  your  trunk !  Here ! "  He  laid  his  hand  on  Tillie 's 
arm,  but  Fairchilds  drew  her  to  him  and  held  his 
'.arm  about  her  waist,  while  Absalom,  darkly  scowling, 
stood  uncertainly  by. 

"Leave  her  with  me.  I  must  talk  with  her.  Must, 
I  say.  Do  you  hear  me?  She—" 

His  words  died  on  his  lips,  as  Tillie 's  head  suddenly 
fell  forward  on  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  down,  Fair- 
childs saw  that  she  had  fainted. 


270 


XXII 

THE  DOC  CONCOCTS  A  PLOT 

you  see  I  'm  through  with  this  place!"  Fair- 
childs  concluded  as,  late  that  night,  he  and  the 
doctor  sat  alone  in  the  sitting-room,  discussing  the 
afternoon's  happenings. 

"I  was  forced  to  believe,"  he  went  on,  "when  I 
saw  Jake  Getz  's  fearful  anxiety  and  real  distress  while 
Tillie  remained  unconscious,  that  the  fellow,  after 
all,  does  have  a  heart  of  flesh  under  all  his  brutality. 
He  had  never  seen  a  woman  faint,  and  he  thought 
at  first  that  Tillie  was  dead.  "We  almost  had  him  on 
our  hands  unconscious!" 

"Well,  the  faintin'  saved  Tillie  a  row  with  him  till 
he  got  her  home  oneet  a 'ready,"  the  doctor  said,  as 
he  puffed  away  at  his  pipe,  his  hands  in  his  vest 
arms,  his  feet  on  the  table,  and  a  newspaper  under 
them  to  spare  the  chenille  table-cover. 

"Yes.  Otherwise  I  don't  know  how  I  could  have 
borne  to  see  her  taken  home  by  that  ruffian— to  be 
punished  for  so  heroically  defending  me!" 

"You  bet!  That  took  cheek,  ain't?— fur  that  lit- 
tle girl  to  stand  there  and  jaw  Jake  Getz — and  make 
him  quit  liekin'  you!  By  gum,  that  minds  me  of 
sceneries  I  've  saw  a 'ready  in  the  theayter!  They; 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

most  gener'ly  faints  away  in  a  swoond  that  way,  too. 
Well,  Tillie  she  come  round  all  right,  ain't? — till  a 
little  while?" 

"Yes.  But  she  was  very  pale  and  weak,  poor 
child!"  Fairchilds  answered,  resting  his  head  wearily 
upon  his  palm.  "When  she  became  conscious,  Getz 
carried  her  out  of  the  woods  to  his  buggy  that  he  had 
left  near  the  school-house. ' ' 

"How  did  Absalom  take  it,  anyhow?" 

"He  's  rather  dazed,  I  think!  He  does  n't  quite 
know  how  to  make  it  all  out.  He  is  a  man  of  one 
idea — one  at  a  time  and  far  apart.  His  idea  at  pres- 
ent is  that  he  is  going  to  marry  Tillie. ' ' 

"Yes,  and  I  never  seen  a  Puntz  yet  where  did  n't 
come  by  what  he  set  his  stubborn  head  to ! "  the  doc- 
tor commented.  "It  wonders  me  sometimes,  how 
Tillie  's  goin'  to  keep  from  marry  in'  him,  now  he  's 
made  up  his  mind  so  firm!" 

"Tillie  knows  her  own  worth  too  well  to  throw  her- 
self away  like  that." 

"Well,  now  I  don't  know,"  said  the  doctor,  doubt- 
fully. "To  be  sure,  I  never  liked  them  Puntzes, 
they  're  so  damned  thick-headed.  Dummness  runs 
in  that  family  so,  it  's  somepin'  surprisin'!  Dumm- 
ness and  stubbornness  is  all  they  got  to  'em.  But 
Absalom  he  's  so  well  fixed — Tillie  she  might  go  fur- 
der  and  do  worse.  Now  there  's  you,  Teacher.  If 
she  took  up  with  you  and  yous  two  got  married,  you  'd 
have  to  rent.  Absalom  he  'd  own  his  own  farm." 

"Now,  come,  Doc,"  protested  Fairchilds,  dis- 
gusted, "you  know  better— you  know  that  to  almost 
272 


The  Doc  concocts  a  plot 

any  sort  of  a  woman  marriage  means  something  more 
than  getting  herself  'well  fixed,'  as  you  put  it.  And 
to  a  woman  like  Tillie!" 

"Yes— yes— I  guess,"  answered  the  doctor,  pulling 
briskly  at  his  pipe.  "It  's  the  same  with  a  male — 
he  mostly  looks  to  somepin  besides  a  good  house- 
keeper. There  's  me,  now — I  'd  have  took  Miss  Mar- 
garet— and  she  could  n't  work  nothin'.  I  tole  her 
I  don't  mind  if  my  wife  is  smart,  so  she  don't  bother 
me  any." 

"You  did,  did  you?"  smiled  Fairchilds.  "And 
what  did  the  lady  say  to  that?" 

"Och,  she  was  sorry!" 

"Sorry  to  turn  you  down,  do  you  mean?" 

' '  It  was  because  I  did  n  't  speak  soon  enough, ' '  the 
doctor  assured  him.  "She  was  promised  a 'ready  to 
one  of  these  here  tony  perfessers  at  the  Normal. 
She  was  sorry  I  had  n't  spoke  sooner.  To  be  sure, 
after  she  had  gave  her  word,  she  had  to  stick  to  it." 
He  thoughtfully  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe, 
while  his  eyes  grew  almost  tender.  "She  was  cer- 
tainly, now,  an  allurin'  female! 

"So  now,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  thoughtful 
pause,  "you  think  your  game  's  played  out  here, 
heh?" 

"Getz  and  Absalom  left  me  with  the  assurance  that 
at  the  Saturday-night  meeting  of  the  Board  I  'd  be 
voted  out.  If  it  depends  on  them— and  I  suppose 
it  does — I  'm  done  for.  They  'd  like  to  roast  me 
over  a  slow  fire ! ' ' 

"You  bet  they  would !" 

2/3 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"I  suppose  I  have  n't  the  least  chance?" 

"Well,  I  don'  know— I  don'  know.  It  would  suit 
me  wonderful  to  get  ahead  of  Jake  Getz  and  them 
;  Puntzes  in  this  here  thing — if  I  anyways  could!  Le' 
me  see."  He  thoughtfully  considered  the  situation. 
"The  Board  meets  day  after  to-morrow.  There  's 
six  directors.  Nathaniel  Puntz  and  Jake  can  easy 
get  'em  all  to  wote  to  put  you  out,  fur  they  ain't 
anyways  stuck  on  you— you  bein'  so  tony  that  way. 
Now  me,  I  don't  mind  it — them  things  don't  never 
bother  me  any — manners  and  cleanness  and  them." 

"Cleanness?" 

"Och,  yes;  us  we  never  seen  any  person  where 
wasted  so  much  time  washin'  theirself — except  Miss 
Margaret.  I  mind  missus  used  to  say  a  clean  towel 
did  n't  last  Miss  Margaret  a  week,  and  no  one  else 
usin '  it !  You  see,  what  the  directors  don 't  like  is  your 
always  havin'  your  hands  so  clean.  Now  they  reason 
this  here  way — a  person  that  never  has  dirty  hands 
is  lazy  and  too  tony." 

"Yes?" 

"But  me,  I  don't  mind.  And  I  'm  swanged  if  I 
would  n't  like  to  beat  out  Jake  and  Nathaniel  on  this 
here  deal!  Say!  I  '11  tell  you  what.  This  here 
game  's  got  fun  in  it  fur  me !  I  believe  I  got  a  way 
of  doin'  them  fellers.  I  ain't  tellin'  you  what  it  is!" 
he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  ' '  But  it  's  a  way  that  's  goin ' 
to  work!  I  'm  swanged  if  it  ain't!  You  '11  see 
oneet!  You  just  let  this  here  thing  to  me  and  you 
won't  be  chased  off  your  job!  I  'm  doin'  it  fur 
the  sake  of  the  fun  I  '11  get  out  of  seein'  Jake  Getz 

274 


The  Doc  concocts  a  plot 

surprised!  Mebbe  that  old  Dutchman  won't  be  won- 
derful spited!" 

"I  shall  be  very  much  indebted  to  you,  doctor,  if 
you  can  help  me,  as  it  suits  me  to  stay  here  for  the 
present. ' ' 

"That  's  all  right.  Fur  one,  there  's  Adam  Ober- 
holzer ;  he  '11  be  an  easy  guy  when  it  comes  to  his 
wote.  Fur  if  I  want,  I  can  bring  a  bill  ag'in'  the  estate 
of  his  pop,  disceased,  and  make  it  'most  anything.  His 
pop  he  died  last  month.  Now  that  there  was  a  man" — 
the  doctor  settled  himself  comfortably,  preparatory 
to  the  relation  of  a  tale — "that  there  was  a  man  that 
was  so  wonderful  set  on  speculatin'  and  savin'  and 
layin'  by,  that  when  he  come  to  die  a  pecooliar  thing 
happened.  You  might  call  that  there  thing  phe-non- 
c-ma.  It  was  this  here  way.  When  ole  Adam  Ober- 
holzer  (he  was  named  after  his  son,  Adam  Oberholzer, 
the  school  directer)  come  to  die,  his  wife  she  thought 
she  'd  better  send  fur  the  Evangelical  preacher  over, 
seein'  as  Adam  he  had  n't  been  inside  a  church  fur 
twenty  years  back,  and,  to  be  sure,  he  was  n't  just 
so  well  prepared.  Oh,  well,  he  was  deef  fur  three 
years  back,  and  churches  don't  do  much  good  to  deef 
people.  But  then  he  never  did  go  when  he  did  have 
his  sound  hearin'.  Many  's  the  time  he  sayed  to  me, 
he  sayed,  'I  don't  believe  in  the  churches,'  he  sayed, 
'and  blamed  if  it  don't  keep  me  busy  believin'  in  a 
Gawd!'  he  sayed.  So  you  see,  he  was  n't  just  what 
you  might  call  a  pillar  of  the  church.  One  time  he 
had  such  a  cough  and  he  come  to  me  and  sayed 
whether  I  could  do  somepin.  'You  're  to  leave  to- 

275 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

bacco  be,'  I  sayed.  Ole  Adam  he  looked  serious.  'If 
you  sayed  it  was  caused  by  goin'  to  church,'  he  an- 
swered to  me,  'I  might  mebbe  break  off.  But  tobacco 
—that  's  some  serious,'  he  says.  Adam  he  used  to 
have  some  notions  about  the  Bible  and  religion  that  I 
did  think,  now,  was  damned  unushal.  Here  one  day 
when  he  was  first  took  sick,  before  he  got  so  deef  yet, 
I  went  to  see  him,  and  the  Evangelical  preacher  was 
there,  readin'  to  him  that  there  piece  of  Scripture 
where,  you  know,  them  that  worked  a  short  time  was 
paid  the  same  as  them  that  worked  all  day.  The 
preacher  he  sayed  he  thought  that  par'ble  might 
fetch  him  'round  oncet  to  a  death-bed  conwersion. 
But  I  'm  swanged  if  Adam  did  n't  just  up  and  say, 
when  the  preacher  got  through,  he  says,  '  That  was  n  't 
a  square  deal  accordin'  to  my  way  of  lookin'  at 
things.'  Yes,  that  's  the  way  that  there  feller  talked. 
Why,  here  oncet — "  the  doctor  paused  to  chuckle 
at  the  recollection— "when  I  got  there,  Reverend  was 
wrestlin'  with  Adam  to  get  hisself  conwerted,  and 
it  was  one  of  Adam's  days  when  he  was  at  his  deefest. 
Reverend  he  shouted  in  his  ear,  'You  must  expe- 
rience religion — and  get  a  change  of  heart — and  be 
conwerted  before  you  die ! '  *  What  d '  you  say  ? '  Adam 
he  ast.  Then  Reverend,  he  seen  that  would  n't  work, 
so  he  cut  it  short,  and  he  says  wery  loud,  'Trust 
the  Lord !'  Now,  ole  Adam  Oberholzer  in  his  business 
dealin's  and  speculatin'  was  always  darned  particular 
who  he  trusted,  still,  so  he  looked  up  at  Reverend, 
and  he  says,  'Is  he  a  reliable  party?'  Well,  by  gum, 
I  bu'st  right  out  laughin' !  I  had  n't  ought  to — seein' 

276 


The  Doc  concocts  a  plot 

it  was  Adam's  death-bed— and  Reverend  him  just 
sweatin'  with  try  in'  to  work  in  his  job  to  get  him  con- 
werted  till  he  passed  away  a 'ready.  But  I  'm 
swanged  if  I  could  keep  in!  I  just  hollered!" 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  shouted  with 
fresh  appreciation  of  his  story,  and  Fairchilds  joined 
in  sympathetically. 

"Well,  did  he  die  unconverted?"  he  asked  the 
doctor. 

"You  bet!  Reverend  he  sayed  afterwards,  that  in 
all  his  practice  of  his  sacred  calling  he  never  had 
knew  such  a  carnal  death-bed.  Now  you  see,"  con- 
cluded the  doctor,  "I  tended  ole  Adam  fur  near  two 
months,  and  that  's  where  I  have  a  hold  on  his  son  the 
school-directer. ' ' 

He  laughed  as  he  rose  and  stretched  himself. 

"It  will  be  no  end  of  sport  foiling  Jake  Getz!" 
Fairchilds  said,  with  but  a  vague  idea  of  what  the 
doctor's  scheme  involved.  "Well,  doctor,  you  are  our 
mascot— Tillie's  and  mine !"  he  added,  as  he,  too,  rose. 

"What  's  thatt" 

"Our  good  luck."  He  held  out  an  objectionably 
clean  hand  with  its  shining  finger-nails.  "Good  night, 
Doc,  and  thank  you ! ' ' 

The  doctor  awkwardly  shook  it  in  his  own  grimy 
fist.  "Good  night  to  you,  then,  Teacher." 

Out  in  the  bar-room,  as  the  doctor  took  his  nightly 
glass  of  beer  at  the  counter,  he  confided  to  Abe 
Wackernagel  that  somehow  he  did,  now,  "like  to  see 
Teacher  use  them  manners  of  hisn.  I  'm  'most  as 
stuck  on  'em  as  missus  is!"  he  declared. 

277 


XXIII 

SUNSHINE  AND  SHADOW 

TILLIE'S  unhappiness,  in  her  certainty  that  on 
Saturday  night  the  Board  would  vote  for  the 
eviction  of  the  teacher,  was  so  great  that  she  felt 
almost  indifferent  to  her  own  fate,  as  she  and  the 
doctor  started  on  their  six-mile  ride  to  East  Done- 
gal. But  when  he  presently  confided  to  her  his 
scheme  to  foil  her  father  and  Absalom, 'she  became 
almost  hysterical  with  joy. 

"You  see,  Tillie,  it  's  this  here  way.  Two  of  these 
here  directers  owes  me  bills.  Now  in  drivin'  you  over 
to  East  Donegal  I  'm  passin'  near  to  the  farms  of 
both  of  them  directers,  and  I  '11  make  it  suit  to  stop 
off  and  press  'em  fur  my  money.  They  're  both  of 
'em  near  as  close  as  Jake  Getz !  They  don't  like  it  fur 
me  to  press  'em  to  pay  right  aways.  So  after  while 
I  '11  say  that  if  they  wote  ag'in'  Jake  and  Nathaniel, 
and  each  of  'em  gets  one  of  the  other  two  directers 
to  wote  with  him  to  leave  Teacher  keep  his  job,  I  '11 
throw  'em  the  doctor's  bill  off!  Adam  Oberholzer 
he  owes  me  about  twelve  dollars,  and  Joseph  Ketter- 
ing  he  owes  me  ten.  I  guess  it  ain't  worth  twelve 
dollars  to  Adam  and  ten  to  Joseph  to  run  Teacher 
off  William  Penn!" 

278 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

"And  do  you  suppose  that  they  will  be  able  to  in- 
fluence the  other  two — John  Coppenhaver  and  Pete 
Underwocht  ? ' ' 

''When  all  them  dollars  depends  on  it,  I  don't  sup- 
pose nothin' — I  know.  I  '11  put  it  this  here  way: 
'If  Teacher  ain't  chased  off,  I  '11  throw  you  my  doc- 
tor's bill  off.  If  he  is,  you  '11  pay  me  up,  and 
pretty  damned  quick,  too ! '  ' 

"But,  Doc,"  faltered  Til  lie,  "won't  it  be  bribery?" 

"Och,  Tillie,  a  body  must  n't  feel  so  conscientious 
about  such  little  things  like  them.  That  's  bein'  too 
serious." 

"Did  you  tell  the  teacher  you  were  going  to  do 
this?"  she  uneasily  asked. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  ain't  such  a  blamed  fool!  I  guess 
I  know  that  much,  that  he  would  n  't  of  saw  it  the  way 
I  see  it.  I  tole  him  I  was  goin'  to  bully  them  direc- 
ters  to  keep  him  in  his  job — but  he  don't  know  how 
I  'm  doin'  it." 

"I  'm  glad  he  does  n't  know,"  sighed  Tillie. 

"Yes,  he  darsent  know  till  it  's  all  over  oneet." 

The  joy  and  relief  she  felt  at  the  doctor's  scheme, 
which  she  was  quite  sure  would  work  out  successfully, 
gave  her  a  self-confidence  in  the  ordeal  before  her 
that  sharpened  her  wits  almost  to  brilliancy.  She 
sailed  through  this  examination,  which  otherwise  she 
would  have  dreaded  unspeakably,  with  an  aplomb 
that  made  her  a  stranger  to  herself.  Even  that 
bugbear  of  the  examination  labeled  by  the  superin- 
tendent, "General  Information,"  and  regarded  with 
suspicion  by  the  applicants  as  a  snare  and  a  delu- 

279 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

sion,  did  not  confound  Tillie  in  her  sudden  and  new- 
found  courage;  though  the  questions  under  this  head 
brought  forth  from  the  applicants  such  astonishing 
statements  as  that  Henry  VIII  was  chiefly  noted  for 
being  "a  great  widower";  and  that  the  Mother  of  the 
Gracchi  was  "probably  Mrs.  Gracchi." 

In  her  unwonted  elation,  Tillie  even  waxed  a  bit 
witty,  and  in  the  quiz  on  "Methods  of  Discipline,"  she 
gave  an  answer  which  no  doubt  led  the  superintendent 
to  mark  her  high. 

"What  method  would  you  pursue  with  a  boy  in 
your  school  who  was  addicted  to  swearing?"  she  was 
asked. 

"I  suppose  I  should  make  him  swear  off!"  said  Til- 
lie,  with  actual  flippancy. 

A  neat  young  woman  of  the  class,  sitting  directly 
in  front  of  the  superintendent,  and  wearing  specta- 
cles and  very  straight,  tight  hair,  cast  a  shocked 
and  reproachful  look  upon  Tillie,  and  turning  to 
the  examiner,  said  primly,  "7  would  organize 
an  anti-swearing  society  in  the  school,  and  reward 
the  boys  who  were  not  profane  by  making  them 
members  of  it,  expelling  those  who  used  any  profane 
language. ' ' 

"And  make  every  normal  boy  turn  blasphemer  in 
derision,  I  'm  afraid,"  was  the  superintendent's  iron- 
ical comment. 

When,  at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  she  drove  back 
with  the  doctor  through  the  winter  twilight,  bearing 
her  precious  certificate  in  her  bosom,  the  brightness 
of  her  face  seemed  to  reflect  the  brilliancy  of  the  red 

280 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

sunset  glow  on  snow-covered  fields,  frozen  creek,  and 
farm-house  windows. 

"Bully  fur  you,  Matilda!"  the  doctor  kept  repeat- 
ing at  intervals.  "Now  won't  Miss  Margaret  be 
tickled,  though !  I  tell  you  what,  wirtue  like  hern 
gits  its  rewards  even  in  this  here  life.  She  '11  cer- 
tainly be  set  up  to  think  she  's  made  a  teacher  out 
of  you  unbeknownst!  And  mebbe  it  won't  tickle  her 
wonderful  to  think  how  she  's  beat  Jake  Getz!"  he 
chuckled. 

"Of  course  you  're  writin'  to  her  to-night,  Tillie, 
ain't  you?"  he  asked.  "I  'd  write  her  off  a  letter 
myself  if  writin'  come  handier  to  me." 

"Of  course  I  shall  let  her  know  at  once,"  Tillie 
replied;  and  in  her  voice,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
doctor's  acquaintance  with  her,  there  was  a  touch  of 
gentle  complacency. 

"I  '11  get  your  letter  out  the  tree-holler  to-morrow 
morning,  then,  when  I  go  a-past— and  I  can  stamp 
it  and  mail  it  fur  you  till  noon.  Then  she  '11  get 
it  till  Monday  morning  yet !  By  gum,  won 't  she,  now, 
be  tickled!" 

"Is  n't  it  all  beautiful!"  Tillie  breathed  ecstati- 
cally. "I  've  got  my  certificate  and  the  teacher  won't 
be  put  out !  What  did  Adam  Oberholzer  and  Joseph 
Kettering  say,  Doc?" 

"I  've  got  them  fixed  all  right!  Just  you  wait, 
Tillie!"  he  said  mysteriously.  "Mebbe  us  we  ain't 
goin'  to  have  the  laugh  on  your  pop  and  old 
Nathaniel  Puntz!  You  '11  see!  Wait  till  your  pop 
comes  home  and  says  what  's  happened  at  Board 

28l 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

jneetin'  to-night!  Golly!  Won't  he  be  hoppin* 
mad!" 

"What  is  going  to  happen,  Doc?" 

"You  wait  and  see !  I  ain't  tellin'  even  you,  Tillie. 
I  'm  savin'  it  fur  a  surprise  party  fur  all  of  yous !" 

"Father  won't  speak  to  me  about  it,  you  know. 
He  won't  mention  Teacher's  name  to  me." 

"Then  won't  you  find  out  off  of  him  about  the 
Board  meetin'?"  the  doctor  asked  in  disappointment. 
"Must  you  wait  till  you  see  me  again  oncet?" 

"He  will  tell  mother.  I  can  get  her  to  tell  me," 
Tillie  said. 

"All  right.  Somepin's  going  to  happen  too  good 
to  wait!  Now  look-ahere,  Tillie,  is  your  pop  to  be 
tole  about  your  certificate?" 

"I  won't  tell  him  until  I  must.  I  don't  know 
how  he  'd  take  it.  He  might  not  let  me  get  a  school 
to  teach.  Of  course,  when  once  I  've  got  a  school, 
he  will  have  to  be  told.  And  then,"  she  quietly 
added,  "I  shall  teach,  whether  he  forbids  it  or  not." 

"To  be  sure!"  heartily  assented  the  doctor.  "And 
leave  him  go  roll  hisself,  ain't!  I  '11  keep  a  look- 
out fur  you  and  tell  you  the  first  wacancy  I  hear  of. ' ' 

"What  would  I  do — what  should  I  have  done  in  all 
these  years,  Doc— if  it  had  n't  been  for  you!"  smiled 
Tillie,  with  an  affectionate  pressure  of  his  rough  hand ; 
and  the  doctor's  face  shone  with  pleasure  to  hear  her. 
"  You  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Doc." 

"Och,  that  's  all  right,  Tillie.  As  I  sayed,  wirtue 
has  its  reward  even  in  this  here  life.  My  wirtuous 
acts  in  standin'  by  you  has  gave  me  as  much  satis- 

282 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

faction  as  I  've  ever  had  out  of  anything !  But  now, 
Tillie,  about  tellin'  your  pop.  I  don't  suspicion  he  'd 
take  it  anyways  ugly.  A  body  'd  think  he  'd  be 
proud!  And  he  had  n't  none  of  the  expense  of 
givin'  you  your  nice  education !" 

"I  can't  be  sure  how  he  would  take  it,  Doc,  so  1 
would  rather  not  tell  him  until  I  must. ' ' 

''All  right.  Just  what  you  say.  But  I  dare  tell 
missus,  ain't?" 

"If  she  won't  tell  the  girls,  Doc.  It  would  get  back 
to  father,  I  'm  afraid,  if  so  many  knew  it. ' ' 

"I  '11  tell  her  not  to  tell.  She  '11  be  as  pleased  and 
proud  as  if  it  was  Manda  or  Rebecca!" 

' '  Poor  Aunty  Em !  She  is  so  good  to  me,  and  I  'm 
afraid  I  've  disappointed  her!"  Tillie  humbly  said; 
but  somehow  the  sadness  that  should  have  expressed 
itself  in  the  voice  of  one  under  suspension  from 
meeting,  when  speaking  of  her  sin,  was  quite  lacking. 

When,  at  length,  they  reached  the  Getz  farm,  Mr. 
Getz  met  them  at  the  gate,  his  face  harsh  with  dis- 
pleasure at  Tillie 's  long  and  unpermitted  absence 
from  home. 

"Hello,  Jake!"  said  the  doctor,  pleasantly,  as  her 
father  lifted  her  down  from  the  high  buggy.  "I 
guess  missus  tole  you  how  I  heard  Tillie  fainted  away 
in  a  swoond  day  before  yesterday,  so  this  morning 
I  come  over  to  see  her  oncet — Aunty  Em  she  was  some 
oneasy.  And  I  seen  she  would  mebbe  have  another 
such  a  swoond  if  she  did  n't  get  a  long  day  out  in 
the  air.  It  's  done  her  wonderful  much  good— won- 
derful!" 

283 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"She  had  n't  no  need  to  stay  all  day!"  growled 
Mr.  Getz.  "Mom  had  all  Tillie 's  work  to  do,  and  her 
own  too.  and  she  did  n't  get  it  through  all." 

"Well,  better  let  the  work  than  have  Tillie  havin' 
any  more  of  them  dangerous  swoonds.  Them  's  dan- 
gerous, I  tell  you,  Jake!  Sometimes  folks  never 
comes  to,  yet ! ' ' 

Mr.  Getz  looked  at  Tillie  apprehensively.  "You 
better  go  in  and  get  your  hot  supper,  Tillie, ' '  he  said, 
not  ungently. 

Before  this  forbearance  of  her  father,  Tillie  had 
a  feeling  of  shame  in  the  doctor's  subterfuges,  as 
she  bade  her  loyal  friend  good  night  and  turned  to 
go  indoors. 

"You  '11  be  over  to  Board  meetin'  to-night,  ain't?" 
the  doctor  said  to  Mr.  Getz  as  he  picked  up  the  reins. 

"  To  be  sure !  Me  and  Nathaniel  Puntz  has  a  state- 
ment to  make  to  the  Board  that  '11  chase  that  tony 
dude  teacher  off  his  job  so  quick  he  won't  have  time 
to  pack  his  trunk!" 

"Is  that  so?"  the  doctor  said  in  feigned  surprise. 
"Well,  he  certainly  is  some  tony— that  I  must  give 
him,  Jake.  Well,  good  night  to  yous!  Be  careful 
of  Tillie 's  health!" 

Getz  went  into  the  house  and  the  doctor,  chuckling 
to  himself,  drove  away. 

Tillie  was  in  bed,  but  sleep  was  far  from  her  eyes, 
when,  late  that  night,  she  heard  her  father  return 
from  the  Board  meeting.  Long  she  lay  in  her  bed, 
listening  with  tense  nerves  to  his  suppressed  tones 
as  he  talked  to  his  wife  in  the  room  across  the  hall, 

284 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

but  she  could  not  hear  what  he  said.  Not  even 
his  tone  of  voice  was  sufficiently  enlightening  as  to 
how  affairs  had  gone. 

In  her  wakef ulness  the  night  was  agonizingly  long ; 
for  though  she  was  hopeful  of  the  success  of  the 
doctor's  plot,  she  knew  that  possibly  there  might  have 
been  some  fatal  hitch. 

At  the  breakfast-table,  next  morning,  her  father 
looked  almost  sick,  and  Tillie's  heart  throbbed  with 
unfilial  joy  in  the  significance  of  this.  His  manner  to 
her  was  curt  and  his  face  betrayed  sullen  anger;  he 
talked  but  little,  and  did  not  once  refer  to  the  Board 
meeting  in  her  presence. 

It  was  not  until  ten  o'clock,  when  he  had  gone  with 
some  of  the  children  to  the  Evangelical  church,  that 
she  found  her  longed-for  opportunity  to  question  her 
stepmother. 

"Well,"  she  began,  with  assumed  indifference,  as 
she  and  her  mother  worked  together  in  the  kitchen 
preparing  the  big  Sunday  dinner,  "did  they  put  the 
teacher  out?" 

"If  they  put  him  out?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Getz, 
slightly  roused  from  her  customary  apathy.  "Well, 
I  think  they  did  n't!  What  do  you  think  they  done 
yet?" 

"I  'm  sure,"  said  Tillie,  evidently  greatly 
interested  in  the  turnips  she  was  paring,  "I  don't 
know. ' ' 

"They  raised  his  salary  five  a  month!" 

The  turnips  dropped  into  the  pan,  and  Tillie 
raised  her  eyes  to  gaze  incredulously  into  the  face 

17  285 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

of  her  stepmother,  who,  with  hands  on  her  hips,  stood 
looking  down  upon  her. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Mrs.  Getz,  ''that  's  what  they 
done !  A  dumm  thing  like  that !  And  after  pop 
and  Nathaniel  Puntz  they  had  spoke  their  speeches 
where  they  had  ready,  how  Teacher  he  was  n't  fit  fur 
William  Penn!  And  after  they  tole  how  he  had  up 
and  sassed  pop,  and  him  a  directer  yet !  And  Nathan- 
iel he  tole  how  Absalom  had  heard  off  the  Doc  how 
Teacher  he  was  a'  wwbeliever  and  says  musin'  is  the 
same  to  him  as  prayin'!  Now  think!  Such  con- 
wictions  as  them !  And  then,  when  the  wote  was  took, 
here  it  come  out  that  only  pop  and  Nathaniel  Puntz 
woted  ag'in'  Teacher,  and  the  other  four  they  woted 
fur!  And  they  woted  to  raise  his  salary  five  a  month 
yet!" 

Tillie 's  eyes  dropped  from  her  mother's  face, 
Jier  chin  quivered,  she  bit  her  lip,  and  suddenly, 
unable  to  control  herself,  she  broke  into  wild,  helpless 
laughter. 

Mrs.  Getz  stared  at  her  almost  in  consternation. 
Never  before  in  her  life  had  she  seen  Tillie  laugh  with 
such  abandon. 

"What  ails  you?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 

Tillie  could  find  no  voice  to  answer,  her  slight  frame 
shaking  convulsively. 

"What  you  laughin'  at,  anyhow?"  Mrs.  Getz  re- 
peated, now  quite  frightened. 

"That— that  Wyandotte  hen  jumped  up  on  the 
sill!"  Tillie  murmured — then  went  off  into  a  perfect 
peal  of  mirth.  It  seemed  as  though  all  the  pent-up  joy 

286 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

and  gaiety  of  her  childhood  had  burst  forth  in  that 
moment. 

"I  don't  see  nothin'  in  that  that  's  anyways  com- 
ical—  a  Wyandotte  hen  on  the  window-sill !"  said  Mrs. 
Getz,  in  stupid  wonder. 

"She  looked  so — so — oh!"  Tillie  gasped,  and  wiped 
her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her  apron. 

"You  don't  take  no  int'rust  in  what  I  tole  you 
all!"  Mrs.  Getz  complained,  sitting  down  near  her 
stepdaughter  to  pick  the  chickens  for  dinner.  "I  'd 
think  it  would  make  you  ashamed  fur  the  way  you 
stood  up  fur  Teacher  ag'in'  your  own  pop  here  last 
Thursday— fur  them  four  directors  to  go  ag'in'  pop 
like  this  here ! ' ' 

"What  reasons  did  they  give  for  voting  for  the 
teacher?"  Tillie  asked,  her  hysterics  subsiding. 

"They  did  n't  give  no  reasons  till  they  had  him 
elected  a 'ready.  Then  Adam  Oberholzer  he  got  up 
and  he  spoke  how  Teacher  learned  the  scholars  so 
good  and  got  along  without  lickin'  'em  any  (pop  he 
had  brung  that  up  ag'in'  Teacher,  but  Adam  he  sayed 
it  was  fur),  and  that  they  better  mebbe  give  him  five 
extry  a  month  to  make  sure  to  keep  such  a  kind  man 
to  their  childern,  and  one  that  learnt  'em  so  good." 

Tillie  showed  signs,  for  an  instant,  of  going  off  into 
another  fit  of  laughter. 

"What  's  ailin'  you?"  her  mother  asked  in  mystifi- 
cation. ' '  I  never  seen  you  act  so  funny !  You  better 
go  take  a  drink." 

Tillie  repressed  herself  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  day,  and,  indeed, 

287 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

through  all  the  week  that  followed,  she  struggled  to 
conceal  from  her  father  the  exultation  of  her  spirits. 
She  feared  he  would  interpret  it  as  a  rejoicing  over 
his  defeat,  and  there  was  really  no  such  feeling  in 
the  girl's  gentle  heart.  She  was  even  moved  to  some 
faint — it  must  be  confessed,  very  faint — pangs  of  pity 
for  him  as  she  saw,  from  day  to  day,  how  hard  he 
took  his  defeat.  Apparently,  it  was  to  him  a  sickening 
blow  to  have  his  "authority"  as  school  director  defied 
by  a  -penniless  young  man  who  was  partly  dependent 
upon  his  vote  for  daily  bread.  He  suffered  keenly 
in  his  conviction  that  the  teacher  was  as  deeply  ex- 
ultant in  his  victory  as  Getz  had  expected  to  be. 

In  these  days,  Tillie  walked  on  air,  and  to  Mrs. 
Getz  and  the  children  she  seemed  almost  another  girl, 
with  that  happy  vibration  in  her  usually  sad  voice, 
and  that  light  of  gladness  in  her  soft  pensive  eyes. 
The  glorious  consciousness  was  ever  with  her  that 
the  teacher  was  always  near — though  she  saw  him 
but  seldom.  This,  and  the  possession  of  the  precious 
certificate,  her  talisman  to  freedom,  hidden  always  in 
her  bosom,  made  her  daily  drudgery  easy  to  her  and 
her  hours  full  of  hope  and  happiness. 

Deep  as  was  Tillie 's  impression  of  the  steadiness 
of  purpose  in  Absalom's  character,  she  was  neverthe- 
less rather  taken  aback  when,  on  the  Sunday  night 
after  that  horrible  experience  in  the  woods,  her  suitor 
stolidly  presented  himself  at  the  farm-house,  attired 
in  his  best  clothes,  his  whole  aspect  and  bearing  elo- 
quent of  the  fact  that  recent  defeat  had  but  made 
him  more  doggedly  determined  to  win  in  the  end. 

288 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

Tillie  wondered  if  she  might  not  be  safe  now  in  dis- 
missing him  emphatically  and  finally ;  but  she  decided 
there  was  still  danger  lest  Absalom  might  wreak  his 
vengeance  in  some  dreadful  way  upon  the  teacher. 

Her  heart  was  so  full  of  happiness  that  she  could 
tolerate  even  Absalom. 

Only  two  short  weeks  of  this  brightness  and  glory, 
and  then  the  blow  fell— the  blow  which  blackened 
the  sun  in  the  heavens.  The  teacher  suddenly,  and 
most  mysteriously,  resigned  and  went  away. 

No  one  knew  why.  Whether  it  was  to  take  a  better 
position,  or  for  what  other  possible  reason,  not  a  soul 
in  the  township  could  tell — not  even  the  Doc. 

Strange  to  say,  Fairchilds  's  going,  instead  of  pleas- 
ing Mr.  Getz,  was  only  an  added  offense  to  both  him 
and  Absalom.  They  had  thirsted  for  vengeance ;  they 
had  longed  to  humiliate  this  "high-minded  dude"; 
and  now  not  only  was  the  opportunity  lost  to  them, 
but  the  "job"  they  had  determined  to  wrest  from 
him  was  indifferently  hurled  back  in  their  faces— he 
did  n't  want  it!  Absalom  and  Getz  writhed  in  their 
helpless  spleen. 

Tillie 's  undiscerning  family  did  not  for  an  instant 
attribute  to  its  true  cause  her  sudden  change  from 
radiant  happiness  to  the  weakness  and  lassitude  that 
tell  of  mental  anguish.  They  were  not  given  to  seeing 
anything  that  was  not  entirely  on  the  surface  and  per- 
fectly obvious. 

Three  days  had  passed  since  Fairchilds 's  departure 
—three  days  of  utter  blackness  to  Tillie;  and  on  the 
third  day  she  went  to  pay  her  weekly  visit  to  the 

289 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

tree-hollow  in  the  woods  where  she  was  wont  to  place 
Miss  Margaret's  letters. 

On  this  day  she  found,  to  her  amazement,  two 
letters.  Her  knees  shook  as  she  recognized  the  teach- 
er's handwriting  on  one  of  them. 

There  was  no  stamp  and  no  post-mark  on  the  en- 
velop. He  had  evidently  written  the  letter  before 
leaving,  and  had  left  it  with  the  doctor  to  be  delivered 
to  her. 

Tillie  had  always  been  obliged  to  manceuver  skil- 
fully in  order  to  get  away  from  the  house  long  enough 
to  pay  these  weekly  visits  to  the  tree-hollow ;  and  she 
nearly  always  read  her  letter  from  Miss  Margaret  at 
night  by  a  candle,  when  the  household  was  asleep. 

But  now,  heedless  of  consequences,  she  sat  down  on 
a  snow-covered  log  and  opened  Fairchilds's  letter,  her 
teeth  chattering  with  more  than  cold. 

It  was  only  a  note,  written  in  great  haste  and  evi- 
dently under  some  excitement.  It  told  her  of  his 
immediate  departure  for  Cambridge  to  accept  a  rather 
profitable  private  tutorship  to  a  rich  man's  son.  He 
would  write  to  Tillie,  later,  when  he  could.  Mean- 
while, God  bless  her — and  he  was  always  her  friend. 
That  was  all.  He  gave  her  no  address  and  did  not 
speak  of  her  writing  to  him. 

Tillie  walked  home  in  a  dream.  All  that  evening, 
she  was  so  "dopplig"  as  finally  to  call  forth  a  sharp 
rebuke  from  her  father,  to  which  she  paid  not  the 
slightest  heed. 

Would  she  ever  see  him  again,  her  heart  kept  ask- 
ing ?  Would  he  really  write  to  her  again  ?  Where  was 

290 


She  sat  down  on  a  snow-covered  log  and  opened 
Fairchilds's  letter." 


Sunshine  and  shadow 

he  at  this  moment,  and  what  was  he  doing?  Did  he 
send  one  thought  to  her,  so  far  away,  so  desolate  ?  Did 
he  have  in  any  least  degree  the  desire,  the  yearning, 
for  her  that  she  had  for  him? 

Tillie  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  for  her  disloyalty  to 
Miss  Margaret  when  she  realized  that  she  had  almost 
forgotten  that  always  precious  letter.  When,  a  little 
past  midnight,  she  took  it  from  her  dress  pocket  she 
noticed  what  had  before  escaped  her— some  erratic 
writing  in  lead  on  the  back  of  the  envelop.  It  was 
in  the  doctor's  strenuous  hand. 

"Willyam  Pens  as  good  as  yoorn  ive  got  them  all 
promist  but  your  pop  to  wote  for  you  at  the  bored 
meating  saterdy  its  to  be  a  surprize  party  for  your 
pop." 


293 


XXIV 

THE  REVOLT  OF  TILLIE 

AT  half -past  seven  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening, 
the  School  Board  once  more  convened  in  the 
hotel  parlor,  for  the  purpose  of  electing  Fairchilds's 
successor. 

"Up  till  now,"  Mr.  Getz  had  remarked  at  the  sup- 
per-table, "I  ain't  been  tole  of  no  candidate  applyin' 
fur  William  Penn,  and  here  to-night  we  meet  to  elect 
him— or  her  if  she  's  a  female." 

Tillie's  heart  had  jumped  to  her  throat  as  she 
heard  him,  wondering  how  he  would  take  it  when 
they  announced  to  him  that  the  applicant  was  none 
other  than  his  own  daughter — whether  he  would  be 
angry  at  her  long  deception,  or  gratified  at  the  pros- 
pect of  her  earning  so  much  money— for,  of  course, 
it  would  never  occur  to  him  that  she  would  dare  refuse 
to  give  him  every  cent  she  received. 

There  was  unwonted  animation  in  the  usually 
stolid  faces  of  the  School  Board  to-night;  for  the 
members  were  roused  to  a  lively  appreciation  of  the 
situation  as  it  related  to  Jake  Getz.  The  doctor  had 
taken  each  and  every  one  of  them  into  his  confidence, 
and  had  graphically  related  to  them  the  story  of  how 
TiUie  had  "come  by"  her  certificate,  and  the  tale  had 

294 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

elicited  their  partizanship  for  Tillie,  as  for  the  hero- 
ine of  a  drama.  Even  Nathaniel  Puntz  was  enjoy- 
ing the  fact  that  he  was  to-night  on  the  side  of  the 
majority.  With  Tillie,  they  were  in  doubt  as  to  how 
Jake  Getz  would  receive  the  news. 

"Is  they  a'  applicant?"  he  inquired  on  his  arrival. 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Nathaniel  Puntz.  "What 
fur  would  it  be  worth  while  to  waste  time  meetin'  to 
elect  her  if  they  ain't  none?" 

"Then  she  's  a  female,  is  she?" 

"Well,  she  ain't  no  male,  anyways,  nor  no  Harvard 
gradyate,  neither.  If  she  was,  /  would  n't  wote  fur 
her!" 

"What  might  her  name  be?" 

"It  's  some  such  a  French  name, ' '  answered  the  doe- 
tor,  who  had  carried  in  the  lamp  and  was  lingering 
a  minute.  "It  would,  now,  surprise  you,  Jake,  if 
you  heard  it  oncet. ' ' 

"Is  she  such  a  foreigner  yet?"  Getz  asked  suspi- 
ciously. "I  mistrust  'em  when  they  're  foreigners." 

"Well,"  spoke  Adam  Oberholzer,  as  the  doctor  re- 
luctantly went  out,  "it  ain't  ten  mile  from  here  she 
was  raised." 

"Is  she  a  gradyate?  We  had  n't  ought  to  take  none 
but  a  Normal.  We  had  enough  trouble!" 

"No,  she  ain't  a  Normal,  but  she  's  got  her  certifi- 
cate off  the  superintendent." 

"Has  any  of  yous  saw  her?" 

"Och,  yes,  she  's  familiar  with  us,"  replied  Joseph 
Kettering,  the  Amishman,  who  was  president  of  the 
Board. 

295 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Why  ain't  she  familiar  with  me,  then?"  Getz 
inquired,  looking  bewildered,  as  the  president  opened 
the  ink-bottle  that  stood  on  the  table  about  which  they 
sat,  and  distributed  slips  of  paper. 

"Well,  that  's  some  different  again,  too,"  face- 
tiously answered  Joseph  Kettering. 

"Won't  she  be  here  to-night  to  leave  us  see  her 
oncet  ? ' ' 

' '  She  won 't,  but  her  pop  will, ' '  answered  Nathaniel 
Puntz;  and  Mr.  Getz  vaguely  realized  in  the  expres- 
sions about  him  that  something  unusual  was  in  the 
air. 

"What  do  we  want  with  her  pop?"  he  asked. 

"We  want  his  wote!"  answered  Adam  Oberholzer 
—which  sally  brought  forth  hilarious  laughter. 

"What  you  mean?"  demanded  Getz,  impatient  of 
all  this  mystery. 

"It  's  the  daughter  of  one  of  this  here  Board  that 
we  're  wotin'  fur!" 

Mr.  Getz's  eyes  moved  about  the  table.  "Why, 
none  of  yous  ain't  got  a  growed-up  daughter  that  's 
been  to  school  long  enough  to  get  a  certificate." 

"It  seems  there  's  ways  of  gettin'  a  certificate  with- 
out goin'  to  school.  Some  girls  can  learn  theirselves 
at  home  without  even  a  teacher,  and  workin'  all  the 
time  at  farm-work,  still,  and  even  livin'  out!"  said 
Mr.  Puntz.  "I  say  a  girl  with  industry  like  that 
would  make  any  feller  a  good  wife. ' ' 

Getz  stared  at  him  in  bewilderment. 

"The  members  of  this  Board,"  said  Mr.  Kettering, 
solemnly,  "and  the  risin'  generation  of  the  future, 

296 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

can  point  this  here  applicant  out  to  their  childern 
as  a  shinin'  example  of  what  can  be  did  by  industry, 
without  money  and  without  price — and  it  '11  be  fur 
a  spur  to  'em  to  go  thou  and  do  likewise. ' ' 

''Are  you  so  dumm,  Jake,  you  don't  know  yet  who 
we  mean?"  Nathaniel  asked. 

' '  Why,  to  be  sure,  don 't  I !  None  of  yous  has  got 
such  a  daughter  where  lived  out." 

"Except  yourself,  Jake!" 

The  eyes  of  the  Board  were  fixed  upon  Mr.  Getz  in 
excited  expectation.  But  he  was  still  heavily  uncom- 
prehending. Then  the  president,  rising,  made  his 
formal  announcement,  impressively  and  with  dignity. 

"Members  of  Canaan  Township  School  Board:  We 
will  now  proceed  to  wote  fur  the  applicant  fur  Wil- 
liam Penn.  She  is  not  unknownst  to  this  here  Board. 
She  is  a  worthy  and  wirtuous  female,  and  has  a  good 
moral  character.  We  think  she  's  been  well  learnt 
how  to  manage  childern,  fur  she  's  been  raised  in  a 
family  where  childern  was  never  scarce.  The  appli- 
cant," continued  the  speaker,  "is — as  I  stated  a 
couple  minutes  back— a  shining  example  of  industry 
to  the  rising  generations  of  the  future,  fur  she's  got 
her  certificate  to  teach— and  wery  high  marks  on  it— 
and  done  it  all  by  her  own  unaided  efforts  and  indus- 
try. Members  of  Canaan  Township  School  Board,  we 
are  now  ready  to  wote  fur  Matilda  Maria  Getz." 

Before  his  dazed  wits  could  recover  from  the  shock 
of  this  announcement,  Jake  Getz's  daughter  had  be- 
come the  unanimously  elected  teacher  of  William 
Penn. 

297 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

THE  ruling  passion  of  the  soul  of  Jacob  Getz  mani- 
fested itself  conspicuously  in  his  reception  of  the  rev- 
elation that  his  daughter,  through  deliberate  and  sys- 
tematic disobedience,  carried  on  through  all  the  years 
of  her  girlhood,  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  certifi- 
cate from  the  county  superintendent,  and  was  now 
the  teacher-elect  at  William  Penn.  The  father's  satis- 
faction in  the  possession  of  a  child  capable  of  earning 
forty  dollars  a  month,  his  greedy  joy  in  the  prospect 
of  this  addition  to  his  income,  entirely  overshadowed 
and  dissipated  the  rage  he  would  otherwise  have  felt. 
The  pathos  of  his  child's  courageous  persistency  in 
the  face  of  his  dreaded  severity,  of  her  pitiful  struggle 
with  all  the  adverse  conditions  of  her  life, — this 
did  not  enter  at  all  into  his  consideration  of  the 
case.  It  was  obvious  to  Tillie,  as  it  had  been  to  the 
School  Board  on  Saturday  night,  that  he  felt  an  added 
satisfaction  in  the  fact  that  this  wonder  had  been 
accomplished  without  any  loss  to  him  either  of  money 
or  of  his  child's  labor. 

Somehow,  her  father's  reception  of  her  triumph 
filled  her  heart  with  more  bitterness  than  she  had  ever 
felt  toward  him  in  all  the  years  of  her  hard  endeavor. 
It  was  on  the  eve  of  her  first  day  of  teaching  that  his 
unusually  affectionate  attitude  to  her  at  the  supper- 
table  suddenly  roused  in  her  a  passion  of  hot  resent- 
ment such  as  her  gentle  heart  had  not  often  expe- 
rienced. 

"I  owe  you  no  thanks,  father,  for  what  education 
I  have!"  she  burst  forth.  "You  always  did  every- 
thing in  your  power  to  hinder  me !" 

298 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

If  a  bomb  had  exploded  in  the  midst  of  them,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Getz  could  not  have  been  more  confounded. 
Mrs.  Getz  looked  to  see  her  husband  order  Tillie  from 
the  table,  or  rise  from  his  place  to  shake  her  and  box 
her  ears.  But  he  did  neither.  In  amazement  he 
stared  at  her  for  a  moment — then  answered  with  a 
mildness  that  amazed  his  wife  even  more  than  Tillie 's 
"sassiness"  had  done. 

"I  'd  of  left  you  study  if  I  'd  knowed  you  could 
come  to  anything  like  this  by  it.  But  I  always  thought 
you  'd  have  to  go  to  the  Normal  to  be  fit  fur  a 
teacher  yet.  And  you  can't  say  you  don't  owe  me  no 
thanks— ain't  I  always  kep'  you?" 

"Kept  me!"  answered  Tillie,  with  a  scorn  that 
widened  her  father's  stare  and  made  her  stepmother 
drop  her  knife  on  her  plate;  "I  never  worked  half 
so  hard  at  Aunty  Em's  as  I  have  done  here  every 
day  of  my  life  since  I  was  nine  years  old — and  she 
thought  my  work  worth  not  only  my  'keep,'  but  two 
dollars  a  week  besides.  When  do  you  ever  spend  two 
dollars  on  me?  You  never  gave  me  a  dollar  that 
I  had  n't  earned  ten  times  over!  You  owe  me  back 
wages ! ' ' 

Jake  Getz  laid  down  his  knife,  with  a  look  on  his 
face  that  made  his  other  children  quail.  His  coun- 
tenance was  livid  with  anger. 

"Owe  you  back  wages!"  he  choked.  "Ain't  you 
my  child,  then,  where  I  begat  and  raised?  Don't  I 
own  you?  What  's  a  child  fur?  To  grow  up  to  be 
no  use  to  them  that  raised  it?  You  talk  like  that  to 
me!"  he  roared.  "You  tell  me  I  owe  you  back 

299 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

money!  Now  listen  here !  I  was  a-goin'  to  leave  you 
keep  five  dollars  every  month  out  of  your  forty.  Yes, 
I  conceited  I  'd  leave  you  have  all  that — five  a  month ! 
Now  fur  sassin'  me  like  what  you  done,  I  ain't  leavin' 
you  have  none  the  first  month!" 

"And  what,"  Tillie  wondered,  a  strange  calm  sud- 
denly following  her  outburst,  as  she  sat  back  in  her 
chair,  white  and  silent, ' '  what  will  he  do  and  say  when 
I  refuse  to  give  him  more  than  the  price  of  my 
board?" 

Her  school-work,  which  began  next  day,  diverted 
her  mind  somewhat  from  its  deep  yearning  for 
him  who  had  become  to  her  the  very  breath  of 
her  life. 

It  was  on  the  Sunday  night  after  her  first  week  of 
teaching  that  she  told  Absalom,  with  all  the  firmness 
she  could  command,  that  he  must  not  come  to  see  her 
any  more,  for  she  was  resolved  not  to  marry  him. 

"Who  are  you  goin'  to  marry,  then?"  he  inquired, 
unconvinced. 

"No  one." 

"Do  you  mean  it  fur  really,  that  you  'd  rather  be 
a'  ole  maid?" 

"I  'd  rather  Be  six  old  maids  than  the  wife  of  a 
Dutchman!" 

"What  fur  kind  of  a  man  do  you  want,  then?" 

"Not  the  kind  that  grows  in  this  township." 

"Would  you,  mebbe,"  Absalom  sarcastically  in- 
quired, "like  such  a  dude  like  what — " 

"Absalom !"  Tillie  flashed  her  beautiful  eyes  upon 
him.  "You  are  unworthy  to  mention  his  name  to  me ! 

300 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

Don't  dare  to  speak  to  me  of  him — or  I  shall  leave 
you  and  go  up-stairs  right  away!" 

Absalom  sullenly  subsided. 

When,  later,  he  left  her,  she  saw  that  her  firm  re- 
fusal to  marry  him  had  in  no  wise  baffled  him. 

This  impression  was  confirmed  when  on  the  next 
Sunday  night,  in  spite  of  her  prohibition,  he  again 
presented  himself. 

Tillie  was  mortally  weary  that  night.  Her  letter 
had  not  come,  and  her  nervous  waiting,  together  with 
the  strain  of  her  unwonted  work  of  teaching,  had 
told  on  her  endurance.  So  poor  Absalom's  reception 
at  her  hands  was  even  colder  than  her  father's 
greeting  at  the  kitchen  door;  for  since  Tillie 's  elec- 
tion to  A\7"illiam  Penn,  Mr.  Getz  was  more  opposed 
than  ever  to  her  marriage,  and  he  did  not  at  all  relish 
the  young  man's  persistency  in  coming  to  see  her  in 
the  face  of  his  own  repeated  warning. 

' '  Tillie, ' '  Absalom  began  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether after  the  family  had  gone  to  bed,  "I  thought 
it  over  oncet,  and  I  come  to  say  I  'd  ruther  have  you 
'round,  even  if  you  did  n't  do  nothin'  but  set  and  knit 
mottos  and  play  the  organ,  than  any  other  woman 
where  could  do  all  my  housework  fur  me.  I  '11  hire 
fur  you,  Tillie— and  you  can  just  set  and  enjoy 
yourself  musin',  like  what  Doc  says  book-learnt  peo- 
ple likes  to  do. ' ' 

Tillie 's  eyes  rested  on  him  with  a  softer  and  a 
kindlier  light  in  them  than  she  had  ever  shown  him 
before;  for  such  a  magnanimous  offer  as  this,  she 
thought,  could  spring  only  from  the  fact  that  Absa- 

3OI 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

lom  was  really  deeply  in  love,  and  she  was  not  a  lit- 
tle touched. 

She  contemplated  him  earnestly  as  he  sat  before 
her,  looking  so  utterly  unnatural  in  his  Sunday 
clothes.  A  feeling  of  compassion  for  him  began  to 
steal  into  her  heart. 

"If  I  am  not  careful,"  she  thought  in  consterna- 
tion, "I  shall  be  saying,  'Yes/  out  of  pity." 

But  a  doubt  quickly  crept  into  her  heart.  Was  it 
really  that  he  loved  her  so  very  much,  or  was  it  that 
his  obstinacy  was  stronger  than  his  prudence,  and 
that  if  he  could  not  get  her  as  he  wanted  her,— as 
his  housekeeper  and  the  mother  of  numberless  chil- 
dren,— he  would  take  her  on  her  own  conditions? 
Only  so  he  got  her— that  was  the  point.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  have  her — it  must  be  accom- 
plished. 

"Absalom,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  going  to  let  you 
waste  any  more  of  your  time.  You  must  never  come 
to  see  me  again  after  to-night.  I  won't  ever  marry 
you,  and  I  won't  let  you  go  on  like  this,  with  your 
false  hope.  If  you  come  again,  I  won't  see  you. 
I  '11  go  up-stairs!" 

One  would  have  thought  that  this  had  no  uncertain 
ring.  But  again  Tillie  knew,  when  Absalom  left  her, 
.  that  his  resolution  not  only  was  not  shaken, — it  was 
not  even  jarred. 

The  weeks  moved  on,  and  the  longed-for  letter  did 
not  come.  Tillie  tried  to  gather  courage  to  question 
the  doctor  as  to  whether  Fairchilds  had  made  any  ar- 
rangement with  him  for  the  delivery  of  a  letter  to 

302 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

her.  But  an  instinct  of  maidenly  reserve  and  pride 
which  she  could  not  conquer  kept  her  lips  closed  on 
the  subject. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this  all-consuming  desire  for  a 
letter,  she  would  more  keenly  have  felt  her  enforced 
alienation  from  her  aunt,  of  whom  she  was  so  fond; 
and  at  the  same  time  have  taken  really  great  pleasure 
in  her  new  work  and  in  having  reached  at  last  her 
long-anticipated  goal. 

In  the  meantime,  while  her  secret  sorrow — like 
Sir  Hudibras's  rusting  sword  that  had  nothing  else 
to  feed  upon  and  so  hacked  upon  itself — seemed  eat- 
ing out  her  very  heart,  the  letter  which  would  have 
been  to  her  as  manna  in  the  wilderness  had  fallen  into 
her  father's  hands,  and  after  being  laboriously 
conned  by  him,  to  his  utter  confusion  as  to  its  mean- 
ing, had  been  consigned  to  the  kitchen  fire. 

Mr.  Getz's  reasons  for  withholding  the  letter  from 
his  daughter  and  burning  it  were  several.  In  the  first 
place,  Fairchilds  was  "an  tmbeliever,"  and  therefore 
his  influence  was  baneful ;  he  was  Jacob  Getz  's  enemy, 
and  therefore  no  fit  person  to  be  writing  friendly  let- 
ters to  his  daughter;  he  asked  Tillie,  in  his  letter,  to 
write  to  him,  and  this  would  involve  the  buying  of 
stationery  and  wasting  of  time  that  might  be  better 
spent;  and  finally,  he  and  Tillie,  as  he  painfully 
gathered  from  the  letter,  were  "making  up"  to  a 
degree  that  might  end  in  her  wanting  to  marry  the 
fellow. 

Mr.  Getz  meant  to  tell  Tillie  that  he  had  received 
this  letter ;  but  somehow,  every  time  he  opened  his  lips 

3°3 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

to  speak  the  words,  the  memory  of  her  wild-cat  be- 
havior in  defense  of  the  teacher  that  afternoon  in 
the  woods,  and  her  horribly  death-like  appearance 
when  she  had  lain  unconscious  in  the  teacher's  arms, 
recurred  to  him  with  a  vividness  that  effectually 
checked  him,  and  eventually  led  him  to  decide  that 
it  were  best  not  to  risk  another  such  outbreak.  So 
she  remained  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  Fairchilds 
had  again  written  to  her. 

Carlyle's  ''Gospel  of  Work"  was  indeed  Tillie 's 
salvation  in  these  days;  for  in  spite  of  her  restless 
yearning  and  loneliness,  she  was  deeply  interested 
and  even  fascinated  with  her  teaching,  and  greatly 
pleased  and  encouraged  with  her  success  in  it. 

At  last,  with  the  end  of  her  first  month  at  William 
Penn,  came  the  rather  dreaded  "pay-day";  for  she 
knew  that  it  would  mean  the  hardest  battle  of  her 
life. 

The  forty  dollars  was  handed  to  her  in  her  school- 
room on  Friday  afternoon,  at  the  close  of  the  session. 
It  seemed  untold  wealth  to  Tillie,  who  never  before 
in  her  life  had  owned  a  dollar. 

She  did  not  risk  carrying  it  all  home  with  her. 
The  larger  part  of  the  sum  she  intrusted  to  the 
doctor  to  deposit  for  her  in  a  Lancaster  bank. 

When,  at  five  o'clock,  she  reached  home  and  walked 
into  the  kitchen,  her  father's  eagerness  for  her  return, 
that  he  might  lay  his  itching  palms  on  her  earnings, 
was  perfectly  manifest  to  her  in  his  unduly  affec- 
tionate, "Well,  Tillie!" 

She  was  pale,  but  outwardly  composed.     It  was 

3°4 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

to  be  one  of  those  supreme  crises  in  life  whicli 
one  is  apt  to  meet  with  a  courage  and  a  serenity  that 
are  not  forthcoming  in  the  smaller  irritations  and 
trials  of  daily  experience. 

"You  don't  look  so  hearty,"  her  father  said,  as  she 
quietly  hung  up  her  shawl  and  hood  in  the  kitchen 
cupboard.  "A  body  'd  think  you  'd  pick  up  and 
get  fat,  now  you  don't  have  to  work  nothin',  except 
mornings  and  evenings." 

"  There  is  no  harder  work  in  the  world,  father, 
than  teaching— even  when  you  like  it." 

' '  It  ain  't  no  work, ' '  he  impatiently  retorted,  ' '  to  set 
and  hear  off  lessons." 

Tillie  did  not  dispute  the  point,  as  she  tied  a  ging- 
ham apron  over  her  dress. 

Her  father  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  shell- 
ing corn,  with  Sammy  and  Sally  at  his  side  helping 
him.  He  stopped  short  in  his  work  and  glanced  at 
Tillie  in  surprise,  as  she  immediately  set  about  as- 
sisting her  mother  in  setting  the  supper-table. 

"You  was  paid  to-day,  was  n't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  gimme  the  money,  then? 
Where  have  you  got  it?" 

Tillie  drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  her  pocket  and  came 
up  to  him. 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "You  know,  Tillie,  I  tole 
you  I  ain't  givin'  you  none  of  your  wages  this  month, 
fur  sassin'  me  like  what  you  done.  But  next  month, 
if  you  're  good-behaved  till  then,  I  '11  give  you  mebbe 
five  dollars.  Gimme  here,"  he  said,  reaching  for  the 

3°5 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

money  across  the  heads  of  the  children  in  front  of 
him. 

But  she  did  not  obey.  She  looked  at  him  steadily 
as  she  stood  before  him,  and  spoke  deliberately, 
though  every  nerve  in  her  body  was  jumping. 

"Aunty  Em  charged  the  teacher  fifteen  dollars  a 
month  for  board.  That  included  his  washing  and  iron- 
ing. I  really  earn  my  board  by  the  work  I  do  here 
Saturdays  and  Sundays,  and  in  the  mornings  and 
evenings  before  and  after  school.  But  I  will  pay  you 
twelve  dollars  a  month  for  my  board. ' ' 

She  laid  on  his  palm  two  five-dollar  bills  and  two 
ones,  and  calmly  walked  back  to  the  table. 

Getz  sat  as  one  suddenly  turned  to  stone.  Sammy 
and  Sally  dropped  their  corn-cobs  into  their  laps  and 
stared  in  frightened  wonder.  Mrs.  Getz  stopped  cut- 
ting the  bread  and  gazed  stupidly  from  her  husband 
to  her  stepdaughter.  Tillie  alone  went  on  with  her 
work,  no  sign  in  her  white,  still  face  of  the  passion 
of  terror  in  her  heart  at  her  own  unspeakable  bold- 
ness. 

Suddenly  two  resounding  slaps  on  the  ears  of 
Sammy  and  Sally,  followed  by  their  sharp  screams  of 
pain  and  fright,  broke  the  tense  stillness. 

"Who  tole  you  to  stop  workin',  heh?"  demanded 
their  father,  fiercely.  "Leave  me  see  you  at  it,  do 
you  hear?  You  stop  another  time  to  gape  around 
and  I  '11  lick  you  good!  Stop  your  bawlin'  now, 
this  minute!" 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  strode  over  to  the  table. 

306 


The  revolt  of  Tillie 

Seizing  Tillie  by  the  shoulder,  he  drew  her  in  front 
of  him. 

"Gimme  every  dollar  of  them  forty!" 

"I  have  given  you  all  I  have." 

"Where  are  you  got  the  others  hid?" 

"I  have  deposited  my  money  in  a  Lancaster  bank." 

Jacob  Getz  's  face  turned  apoplectic  with  rage. 

"Who  took  it  to  Lancaster  fur  you?" 

"I  sent  it." 

"What  fur  bank?" 

"I  prefer  not  to  tell  you  that." 

"You  perfer!  I  '11  learn  you  perfer!  Who  took  it 
in  fur  you — and  what  fur  bank?  Answer  to  me!" 

"Father,  the  money  is  mine." 

"It  's  no  such  thing!  You  ain't  but  seventeen. 
And  I  don't  care  if  you  're  eighteen  or  even  twenty- 
one  !  You  're  my  child  and  you  '11  obey  to  me  and  do 
what  I  tell  you!" 

"Father,  I  will  not  submit  to  your  robbing  me. 
You  can't  force  me  to  give  you  my  earnings.  If  you 
could,  I  would  n  't  teach  at  all ! " 

"You  won't  submit!  And  I  darsent  rob  you!"  he 
spluttered.  "Don't  you  know  I  can  collect  your 
wages  off  the  secretary  of  the  Board  myself?" 

"Before  next  pay-day  I  shall  be  eighteen.  Then 
you  can't  legally  do  that.  If  you  could,  I  would 
resign.  Then  you  would  n't  even  get  your  twelve 
dollars  a  month  for  my  board.  That  's  four  dollars 
more  than  I  can  earn  living  out  at  Aunty  Em's." 

Beside  himself  with  his  fury,  Getz  drew  her  a  few 

3°7 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

steps  to  the  closet  where  his  strap  hung,  and  jerking 
it  from  its  nail,  he  swung  out  his  arm. 

But  Tillie,  with  a  strength  born  of  a  sudden  fury 
almost  matching  his  own,  and  feeling  in  her  awakened 
womanhood  a  new  sense  of  outrage  and  ignominy  in 
such  treatment,  wrenched  herself  free,  sprang  to  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  faced  him  with  blazing  eyes. 

"Dare  to  touch  me— ever  again  so  long  as  you 
live!— and  I  '11  kill  you,  I  '11  kill  you!" 

Such  madness  of  speech,  to  ears  accustomed  to  the 
carefully  tempered  converse  of  Mennonites,  Amish, 
and  Dunkards,  was  in  itself  a  wickedness  almost  as 
great  as  the  deed  threatened.  The  family,  from  the 
father  down  to  six-year-old  Zephaniah,  trembled  to 
hear  the  awful  words. 

"Ever  dare  to  touch  me  again  so  long  as  we  both 
live — and  I  '11  stab  you  dead!" 

Mrs.  Getz  shrieked.  Sally  and  Sammy  clung  to 
each  other  whimpering  in  terror,  and  the  younger 
children  about  the  room  took  up  the  chorus. 

"Tillie!"  gasped  her  father. 

The  girl  tottered,  her  eyes  suddenly  rolled  back  in. 
her  head,  she  stretched  out  her  hands,  and  fell  over 
on  the  floor.  Once  more  Tillie  had  fainted. 


308 


XXV 

GETZ  "LEARNS"  TILLIE 

AS  a  drowning  man  clings  to  whatever  comes  in 
_/\.  his  way,  Tillie,  in  these  weary  days  of  heart- 
ache and  yearning,  turned  with  new  intensity  of  feel- 
ing to  Miss  Margaret,  who  had  never  failed  her, 
and  their  interchange  of  letters  became  more  fre- 
quent. 

Her  father  did  not  easily  give  up  the  struggle  with 
her  for  the  possession  of  her  salary.  Finding  that  he 
could  not  legally  collect  it  himself  from  the  treasurer 
of  the  Board,  he  accused  his  brother-in-law,  Abe 
Wackernagel,  of  having  taken  it  to  town  for  her ;  and 
when  Abe  denied  the  charge,  with  the  assurance, 
however,  that  he  "would  do  that  much  for  Tillie  any 
day  he  got  the  chancet,"  Mr.  Getz  next  taxed  the 
doctor,  who,  of  course,  without  the  least  scruple,  de- 
nied all  knowledge  of  Tillie 's  monetary  affairs. 

On  market  day,  he  had  to  go  to  Lancaster  City, 
and  when  his  efforts  to  force  Tillie  to  sign  a  check 
payable  to  him  had  proved  vain,  his  baffled  greed 
again  roused  him  to  uncontrollable  fury,  and  lifting 
his  hand,  he  struck  her  across  the  cheek. 

Tillie  reeled  and  would  have  fallen  had  he  not 
caught  her,  his  anger  instantly  cooling  in  his  fear 

3°9 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

lest  she  faint  again.  But  Tillie  had  no  idea  of  faint- 
ing. "Let  me  go,"  she  said  quietly,  drawing  her 
arm  out  of  his  clasp.  Turning  quickly  away, 
she  walked  straight  out  of  the  room  and  up-stairs 
to  her  chamber. 

Her  one  change  of  clothing  she  quickly  tied  into 
a  bundle,  and  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she 
walked  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house. 

"Where  you  goin'?"  her  father  demanded  roughly 
as  he  followed  her  out  on  the  porch. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  walked  on  to  the  gate.  In 
an  instant  he  had  overtaken  her  and  stood  squarely  in 
her  path. 

"Where  you  goin'  to?"  he  repeated. 

"To  town,  to  board  at  the  store." 

He  dragged  her,  almost  by  main  force,  back  into 
the  house,  and  all  that  evening  kept  a  watch  upon  her 
until  he  knew  that  she  was  in  bed. 

Next  morning,  Tillie  carried  her  bundle  of  clothing 
to  school  with  her,  and  at  the  noon  recess  she  went  to 
the  family  who  kept  the  village  store  and  engaged 
board  with  them,  saying  she  could  not  stand  the  daily 
walks  to  and  from  school. 

When,  at  six  o'clock  that  evening,  she  had  not  re- 
turned home,  her  father  drove  in  to  the  village  store 
to  get  her.  But  she  locked  herself  in  her  bedroom  and 
would  not  come  out. 

In  the  next  few  weeks  he  tried  every  means  of  force 
at  his  command,  but  in  vain ;  and  at  last  he  humbled 
himself  to  propose  a  compromise. 

"I  '11  leave  you  have  some  of  your  money  every 

310 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

month,  Tillie,— as  much  as  ten  dollars,— if  you  '11  give 
me  the  rest,  still." 

"Why  should  I  give  it  to  you,  father?  How 
would  that  benefit  me?"  she  said,  with  a  rather  wicked 
relish  in  turning  the  tables  on  him  and  applying  his 
life  principle  of  selfishness  to  her  own  case. 

Her  father  did  not  know  how  to  meet  it.  Never  be- 
fore in  her  life,  to  his  knowledge,  had  Tillie  consid- 
ered her  own  benefit  before  his  and  that  of  his  wife 
and  children.  That  she  should  dare  to  do  so  now 
seemed  to  knock  the  foundations  from  under  him. 

"When  I  'm  dead,  won't  you  and  the  others  in- 
herit off  of  me  all  I  've  saved?"  he  feebly  inquired. 

"But  that  will  be  when  I  'm  too  old  to  enjoy  or 
profit  by  it." 

"How  much  do  you  want  I  should  give  you  out  of 
your  wages  every  month,  then?" 

"You  can't  give  me  what  is  not  yours  to  give." 

"Now  don't  you  be  sassin'  me,  or  I  '11  learn  you!" 

They  were  alone  in  her  school-room  on  a  late  FeB- 
ruary  afternoon,  after  school  had  been  dismissed. 
Tillie  quickly  rose  and  reached  for  her  shawl  and 
bonnet.  She  usually  tried  to  avoid  giving  him  an 
opportunity  like  this  for  bullying  her,  with  no  one  by 
to  protect  her. 

"Just  stay  settin',"  he  growled  sullenly,  and  she 
knew  from  his  tone  that  he  had  surrendered. 

"If  you  '11  come  home  to  board,  I  won't  bother  you 
no  more,  then,"  he  further  humbled  himself  to  add. 
The  loss  even  of  the  twelve  dollars'  board  was  more 
than  he  could  bear. 

311 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"It  would  not  be  safe,"  answered  Tillie,  grimly. 

' '  Och,  it  '11  be  safe  enough.    I  '11  leave  you  be. ' ' 

"It  would  not  be  safe  for  you." 

* '  Fur  me  ?    What  you  talkin '  ? " 

"If  you  lost  your  temper  and  struck  me,  I  might 
kill  you.  That  's  why  I  came  away." 

The  father  stared  in  furtive  horror  at  the  white, 
impassive  face  of  his  daughter. 

Could  this  be  Tillie — his  meek,  long-suffering  Til- 
lie? 

"Another  thing,"  she  continued  resolutely,  for  she 
had  lost  all  fear  of  speaking  her  mind  to  him,  "why 
should  I  pay  you  twelve  dollars  a  month  board,  when 
I  get  my  board  at  the  store  for  six,  because  I  wait 
on  customers  between  times  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Getz  looked  very  downcast.  There  was  a  long 
silence  between  them. 

"I  must  go  now,  father.  This  is  the  hour  that  I 
always  spend  in  the  store." 

"I  '11  board  you  fur  six,  then,"  he  growled. 

"And  make  me  work  from  four  in  the  morning 
until  eight  or  nine  at  night?  It  is  easier  standing 
in  the  store.  I  can  read  when  there  are  no  customers. ' ' 

"To  think  I  brung  up  a  child  to  talk  to  me  like 
this  here ! "  He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"The  rest  will  turn  out  even  worse,"  Tillie  prophe- 
sied with  conviction,  "unless  you  are  less  harsh  with 
them.  Your  harshness  will  drive  every  child  you  have 
to  defy  you." 

"I  '11  take  good  care  none  of  the  others  turns 
out  like  you!"  he  threateningly  exclaimed.  "And 
3I2 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

you  'II  see  oncet!  You  '11  find  out!  You  just  wait! 
I  tried  everything — now  I  know  what  I  'm  doin'. 
It  '11  learn  you!" 

In  the  next  few  weeks,  as  nothing  turned  up  to 
make  good  these  threats,  Tillie  often  wondered  what 
her  father  had  meant  by  them.  It  was  not  like  him  to 
waste  time  in  empty  words. 

But  she  was  soon  to  learn.  One  evening  the  doctor 
came  over  to  the  store  to  repeat  to  her  some  rumors 
he  had  heard  and  which  he  thought  she  ought  to 
know. 

"Tillie!  your  pop  's  workin'  the  directers  to  have 
you  chased  off  William  Penn  till  the  April  election 
a 'ready!" 

"  Oh,  Doc!"  Tillie  gasped,  "how  do  you  know?" 

"That  's  what  the  talk  is.  He  's  goin'  about  to  all 
of  'em  whenever  he  can  handy  leave  off  from  his  work, 
and  he  's  tellin'  'em  they  had  ought  to  set  that  ex- 
ample to  onruly  children ;  and  most  of  'em  's  agreein ' 
with  him.  Nathaniel  Puntz  he  agrees  with  him.  A$- 
salom  he  talks  down  on  you  since  you  won't  leave  him 
come  no  more  Sundays,  still.  Your  pop  he  says  when 
your  teachin'  is  a  loss  to  him  instead  of  a  help,  he 
ain't  leavin'  you  keep  on.  He  says  when  you  don't 
have  no  more  money,  you  '11  have  to  come  home  and 
help  him  and  your  mom  with  the  work.  Nathaniel 
Puntz  he  says  this  is  a  warnin'  to  parents  not 
to  leave  their  children  have  too  much  education— 
that  they  get  high-minded  that  way  and  won't  even  get 
married. ' ' 

"But,  Doc,"  Tillie  pleaded  with  him  in  an  agony  of 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

mind,  "you  won't  let  them  take  my  school  from  me, 
will  you?  You  '11  make  them  let  me  keep  it?" 

The  doctor  gave  a  little  laugh.  "By  golly,  Tillie, 
I  ain't  the  President  of  America !  You  think  because 
I  got  you  through  oncet  or  twicet,  I  kin  do  anything 
with  them  directors,  still !  Well,  a  body  can't  always 
get  ahead  of  a  set  of  stubborn-headed  Dutchmen — and 
with  Nathaniel  Puntz  so  wonderful  thick  in  with  your 
pop  to  work  ag'in'  you,  because  you  won't  have  that 
dumm  Absalom  of  hisn ! ' ' 

"What  shall  I  do?"  Tillie  cried.  "I  can  never, 
never  go  back  to  my  old  life  again— that  hopeless, 
dreary  drudgery  on  the  farm!  I  can't,  indeed  I 
can't!  I  won't  go  back.  What  shall  I  do ?" 

"Look-ahere,  Tillie!"  the  doctor  spoke  soothingly, 
"I  '11  do  what  I  otherwise  kin  to  help  you.  I  '11  dc 
some  back-talkin'  myself  to  them  directers.  But  you 
see,"  he  said  in  a  troubled  tone,  "none  of  them  direc- 
ters happens  to  owe  me  no  doctor-bill  just  now,  and 
that  makes  it  a  little  harder  to  persuade  'em  to  see 
my  view  of  the  case.  Now  if  only  some  of  their  wives 
would  up  and  get  sick  for  'em  and  I  could  run  'em 
up  a  bill!  But,"  he  concluded,  shaking  his  head  in 
discouragement,  "it 's  a  wonderful  healthy  season- 
wonderful  healthy ! ' ' 

In  the  two  months  that  followed,  the  doctor  worked 
hard  to  counteract  Mr.  Getz's  influence  with  the 
Board.  Tillie,  too,  missed  no  least  opportunity  to 
plead  her  cause  with  them,  not  only  by  direct  argu- 
ment, but  by  the  indirect  means  of  doing  her  best 
possible  work  in  her  school. 


"She  no  longer  wore  her  nun-like  garb." 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

But  both  she  and  the  doctor  realized,  as  the  weeks 
moved  on,  that  they  were  working  in  vain;  for  Mr. 
Getz,  in  his  statements  to  the  directors,  had  appealed 
to  some  of  their  most  deep-rooted  prejudices.  Tillie 's 
filial  insubordination,  her  "  high-mindedness, "  her 
distaste  for  domestic  work,  so  strong  that  she  refused 
even  to  live  under  her  father's  roof — all  these  things 
made  her  unfit  to  be  an  instructor  and  guide  to  their 
young  children.  She  would  imbue  the  "rising  genera- 
tion" with  her  worldly  and  wrong-headed  ideas. 

Had  Tillie  remained  "plain,"  she  would  no  doubt 
have  had  the  championship  of  the  two  New  Mennonite 
members  of  the  Board.  But  her  apostasy  had  lost  her 
even  that  defense,  for  she  no  longer  wore  her  nun-like 
garb.  After  her  suspension  from  meeting  and  her 
election  to  William  Penn,  she  had  gradually  drifted 
into  the  conviction  that  colors  other  than  gray,  black, 
or  brown  were  probably  pleasing  to  the  Creator,  and 
that  what  really  mattered  was  not  what  she  wore,  but 
what  she  was.  It  was  without  any  violent  struggles 
or  throes  of  anguish  that,  in  this  revolution  of  her 
faith,  she  quite  naturally  fell  away  from  the  creed 
which  once  had  held  her  such  a  devotee.  When  she 
presently  appeared  in  the  vain  and  ungodly  habili- 
ments of  "the  world's  people,"  the  brethren  gave  her 
up  in  despair  and  excommunicated  her. 

"No  use,  Tillie,"  the  doctor  would  report  in  dis- 
couragement, week  after  week;  "we  're  up  against 
it  sure  this  time !  You  're  losin '  William  Penn  till 
next  month,  or  I  '11  eat  my  hat !  A  body  might  as  well 
try  to  eat  his  hat  as  move  them  pig-headed  Dutch 

3*7 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

once  they  get  sot.  And  they  're  sot  on  puttin'  you 
out,  all  right !  You  see,  your  pop  and  Nathaniel  Puntz 
they  just  fixed  'em!  Me  and  you  ain't  got  no  show 
at  all." 

Tillie  could  think  of  no  way  of  escape  from  her 
desperate  position.  What  was  there  before  her  but 
a  return  to  the  farm,  or  perhaps,  at  best,  marriage 
with  Absalom  ? 

"To  be  sure,  I  should  have  to  be  reduced  to  utter 
indifference  to  my  fate  if  I  ever  consented  to  marry 
Absalom,"  she  bitterly  told  herself.  "But  when  it  is 
a  question  between  doing  that  and  living  at  home,  I 
don't  know  but  I  might  be  driven  to  it!" 

At  times,  the  realization  that  there  was  no  possible 
appeal  from  her  situation  did  almost  drive  her  to  a 
frenzy.  After  so  many  years  of  struggle,  just  as  she 
was  tasting  success,  to  lose  all  the  fruits  of  her  labor 
—how  could  she  endure  it?  With  the  work  she  loved 
taken  away  from  her,  how  could  she  bear  the  gnawing 
hunger  at  her  heart  for  the  presence  of  him  unto 
whom  was  every  thought  of  her  brain  and  every 
throbbing  pulse  of  her  soul?  The  future  seemed  to 
stretch  before  her,  a  terrible,  an  unendurable  blank. 

The  first  week  of  April  was  the  time  fixed  for  the 
meeting  of  the  Board  at  which  she  was  to  be  "chased 
off  her  job ' ' ;  and  as  the  fatal  day  drew  near,  a  sort  of 
lethargy  settled  upon  her,  and  she  ceased  to  struggle, 
even  in  spirit,  against  the  inevitable. 

"Well,  Tillie,"  the  doctor  said,  with  a  long  sigh, 
as  he  came  into  the  store  at  six  o'clock  on  the  event- 
ful evening,  and  leaned  over  the  counter  to  talk  to  the 

318 


'  Well,  Tillie— '  the  doctor  said,  with  a  long  sigh." 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

girl,  "they  're  all  conwened  by  now,  over  there  in 
the  hotel  parlor.  Your  pop  and  Nathaniel  Puntz 
they  're  lookin'  wonderful  important.  Your  pop," 
he  vindictively  added,  "is  just  chucklin'  at  the  idea 
of  gettin'  you  home  under  his  thumb  ag'in!" 

Tillie  did  not  speak.  She  sat  behind  the  counter, 
her  cheeks  resting  on  the  backs  of  her  hands,  her  wist- 
ful eyes  gazing  past  the  doctor  toward  the  red  light 
in  the  hotel  windows  across  the  way. 

"Golly!  but  I  'd  of  liked  to  beat  'em  out  on  this 
here  game !  But  they  've  got  us,  Tillie !  They  '11  be 
wotin'  you  out  of  your  job  any  minute  now.  And 
then  your  pop  '11  be  comin'  over  here  to  fetch  you 
along  home !  Oh !  If  he  was  n  't  your  pop  I  c  'd  say 
somethin'  real  perfane  about  him." 

Tillie  drew  a  long  breath;  but  she  did  not  speak. 
She  could  not.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  come  to 
the  end  of  everything. 

"Look-ahere,  Tillie,"  the  doctor  spoke  suddenly, 
"you  just  up  and  get  ahead  of  'em  all— you  just  take 
yourself  over  to  the  Millersville  Normal !  You  Ve 
got  some  money  saved,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes!"  A  ray  of  hope  kindled  in  her  eyes.  "I 
have  saved  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars!  I 
should  have  more  than  that  if  I  had  not  returned 
to  the  world's  dress." 

"A  hundred  and  twenty-five  's  plenty  enough  for  a 
good  starter  at  the  Millersville  Normal, ' '  said  the  doc- 
tor. 

"But,"  Tillie  hesitated,  "this  is  April,  and  the 
spring  term  closes  in  three  months.  What  should  I  do 

32I 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

and  where  could  I  go  after  that?  If  I  made  such  a 
break  with  father,  he  might  refuse  to  take  me  home 
even  if  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go.  Could  I  risk  that  ? ' ' 

The  doctor  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and  heavily 
considered  the  situation. 

"I  'm  blamed  if  I  dare  adwise  you,  Tillie.  It  's 
some  serious  adwisin'  a  young  unprotected  female  to 
leave  her  pop 's  roof  t  to  go  out  into  the  unbeknownst 
world,"  he  said  sentimentally.  "To  be  sure,  Miss 
Margaret  would  see  after  you  while  you  was  at  the 
Normal.  But  when  wacation  is  here  in  June  she  might 
mebbe  be  goin'  away  for  such  a  trip  like,  and  then  if 
you  could  n't  come  back  home,  you  'd  be  throwed  out 
on  the  cold  wide  world,  where  there  's  many  a  pitfall 
for  the  on  wary. ' ' 

"It  seems  too  great  a  risk  to  run,  does  n't  it? 
There  seems  to  be  nothing — nothing — that  I  can  do 
but  go  back  to  the  farm,"  she  said,  the  hope  dying 
out  of  her  eyes. 

"Just  till  I  kin  get  you  another  school,  Tillie,"  he 
consoled  her.  "I  '11  be  lookin'  out  for  a  wacancy  in 
the  county  for  you,  you  bet!" 

"Thank  you,  Doc,"  she  answered  wearily;  "but 
you  know  another  school  could  n't  possibly  be  open 
to  me  until  next  fall — five  months  from  now." 

She  threw  her  head  back  upon  the  palm  of  her  hand. 
"I  'm  so  tired — so  very  tired  of  it  all.  What  's  the 
use  of  struggling?  What  am  I  struggling  fort" 

"What  are  you  struggling  fur?"  the  doctor  re- 
peated. "Why,  to  get  shed  of  your  pop  and  all  them 
kids  out  at  the  Getz  farm  that  wears  out  your  young 

322 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

life  workin '  for  'em !  That  's  what !  And  to  have 
some  freedom  and  money  of  your  own— to  have  a  little 
pleasure  now  and  ag'in!  I  tell  you,  Tillie,  I  don't 
want  to  see  you  goin'  out  there  to  that  farm  ag'in!" 

"Do  you  think  I  should  dare  to  run  away  to  the 
Normal?"  she  asked  fearfully. 

The  doctor  tilted  back  his  hat  and  scratched  his 
head. 

"Leave  me  to  think  it  over  oncet,  Tillie,  and  till 
to-morrow  mornin'  a 'ready  I  '11  give  you  my  answer. 
My  conscience  won't  give  me  the  dare  to  adwise  you 
offhand  in  a  matter  that  's  so  serious  like  what  this 
is." 

"Father  will  want  to  make  me  go  out  to  the  farm 
with  him  this  evening,  I  am  sure,"  she  said;  "and 
when  once  I  am  out  there,  I  shall  not  have  either  the 
spirit  or  the  chance  to  get  away,  I  'm  afraid. ' ' 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  despondently.  "We  cer- 
tainly are  up  ag'in'  it!  /  can't  see  no  way  out." 

"There  is  no  way  out,"  Tillie  said  in  a  strangely 
quiet  voice.  "Doc,"  she  added  after  an  instant,  lay- 
ing her  hand  on  his  rough  one  and  pressing  it,  "al- 
though I  have  failed  in  all  that  you  have  tried  to  help 
me  to  be  and  to  do,  I  shall  never  forget  to  be  grateful 
to  you— my  best  and  kindest  friend !" 

The  doctor  looked  down  almost  reverently  at  the  lit- 
tle white  hand  resting  against  his  dark  one. 

Suddenly  Tillie 's  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  the 
open  doorway,  where  the  smiling  presence  of  Walter 
Fairchilds  presented  itself  to  her  startled  gaze. 
"Tillie!  and  the  Doc!    Well,  it  's  good  to  see  you. 

3^3 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

May  I  break  in  on  your  conference— I  can  see  it  's 
important."  He  spoke  lightly,  but  his  voice  was  vi- 
brant with  some  restrained  emotion.  At  the  first  sight 
of  him,  Tillie 's  hand  instinctively  crept  up  to  feel  if 
those  precious  curls  were  in  their  proper  place.  The 
care  and  devotion  she  had  spent  upon  them  during 
all  these  weary,  desolate  months !  And  all  because  a 
man— the  one,  only  man— had  once  said  they  were 
pretty !  Alas,  Tillie,  for  your  Mennonite  principles ! 

And  now,  at  sight  of  the  dear,  familiar  face  and 
form,  the  girl  trembled  and  was  speechless. 

Not  so  the  doctor.  With  a  yell,  he  turned  upon  the 
visitor,  grasped  both  his  hands,  and  nearly  wrung 
them  off. 

"Hang  me,  of  I  was  ever  so  glad  to  see  a  feller  like 
wot  I  am  you.  Teacher,"  he  cried  in  huge  delight, 
"the  country  's  saved!  Providence  fetched  you  here 
in  the  nick  of  time !  You  always  was  a  friend  to  Tillie, 
and  you  kin  help  her  out  now ! ' ' 

Walter  Fairchilds  did  not  reply  at  first.  He  stood, 
gazing  over  the  doctor's  shoulder  at  the  new  Tillie, 
transformed  in  countenance  by  the  deep  waters 
through  which  she  had  passed  in  the  five  months 
that  had  slipped  round  since  he  had  gone  out  of  her 
life;  and  so  transformed  in  appearance  by  the  drop- 
ping of  her  Mennonite  garb  that  he  could  hardly  be- 
lieve the  testimony  of  his  eyes. 

"Is  it — is  it  really  you,  Tillie?"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand.  "And  are  n't  you  even  a  little  bit  glad 
to  see  me?" 

The  familiar  voice  brought  the  life-blood  back  to 
her  face.  She  took  a  step  toward  him,  both  hands 

324 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

outstretched, — then,  suddenly,  she  stopped  and  her 
cheeks  crimsoned.  "Of  course  we  're  glad  to  see  you 
— very!"  she  said  softly  but  constrainedly. 

"Lemme  tell  you  the  news,"  shouted  the  doctor. 
"You  '11  mebbe  save  Tillie  from  goin'  out  there  to  her 
pop's  farm  ag'in!  She  's  teacher  at  William  Penn? 
and  her  pop  's  over  there  at  the  Board  meetin'  now, 
havin'  her  throwed  off,  and  then  he  '11  want  to  take 
her  home  to  work  herself  to  death  for  him  and  all 
them  baker's  dozen  of  children  he  's  got  out  there! 
And  Tillie  she  don't  want  to  go — and  waste  all  her 
nice  education  that  there  way ! ' ' 

Fairchilds  took  her  hand  and  looked  down  into  her 
shining  eyes. 

"I  hardly  know  you,  Tillie,  in  your  new  way  of 
dressing!" 

"What — what  brings  you  here?"  she  asked,  draw- 
ing away  her  hand. 

"I  've  come  from  the  Millersville  Normal  School 
with  a  letter  for  you  from  Mrs.  Lansing,"  he  ex- 
plained, "and  I  've  promised  to  bring  you  back  with 
me  by  way  of  answer. 

"I  am  an  instructor  in  English  there  now,  you 
know,  and  so,  of  course,  I  have  come  to  know  your 
'Miss  Margaret,'  "  he  added,  in  answer  to  Tillie 's 
unspoken  question. 

The  girl  opened  the  envelop  with  trembling  fingers 
and  read: 

"My  DEAR  LITTLE  MENNONiTE  MAID  :  We  have  rather 
suddenly  decided  to  go  abroad  in  July — my  husband 
needs  the  rest  and  change,  as  do  we  all;  and  I  want 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

you  to  go  with  me  as  companion  and  friend,  and  to 
help  me  in  the  care  of  the  children.  In  the  meantime 
there  is  much  to  be  done  by  way  of  preparation  for 
such  a  trip;  so  can't  you  arrange  to  come  to  me  at 
once  and  you  can  have  the  benefit  of  the  spring  term  at 
the  Normal.  I  need  n't  tell  you,  dear  child,  how  glad 
I  shall  be  to  have  you  with  me.  And  what  such  a  trip 
ought  to  mean  to  you,  who  have  struggled  so  bravely 
to  live  the  life  the  Almighty  meant  that  you  should 
live,  you  only  can  fully  realize.  You  're  of  age  now 
and  can  act  for  yourself.  Break  with  your  present  en- 
vironment now,  or,  I  'm  afraid,  Tillie,  it  will  be  never. 
"Come  to  me  at  once,  and  with  the  bearer  of  this 
note.  With  love,  I  am,  as  always,  your  affectionate 
"  'Miss  MARGARET.'  " 

When  she  had  finished  Tillie  looked  up  with  brim- 
ming eyes. 

"Doc,"  she  said,  "listen!"  and  she  read  the  letter 
aloud,  speaking  slowly  and  distinctly  that  he  might 
fully  grasp  the  glory  of  it  all.  At  the  end  the  sweet 
voice  faltered  and  broke. 

"Oh,  Doc!"  sobbed  Tillie,  "isn't  it  wonderful!" 

The  shaggy  old  fellow  blinked  his  eyes  rapidly,  then 
suddenly  relieved  his  feelings  with  an  outrageous 
burst  of  profanity.  With  a  rapidity  bewildering  to 
his  hearers,  his  tone  instantly  changed  again  to  one 
of  lachrymose  solemnity: 

"  'Gawd  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform!'  ' 

326 


Getz  "learns"  Tillie 

he  piously  repeated.  "Ain't,  now,  he  does,  Tillie! 
Och !"  he  exclaimed,  "I  got  a  thought !  You  go  right 
straight  over  there  to  that  there  Board  meetin'  and 
circumwent  'em !  Before  they  're  got  time  to  wote 
you  off  your  job,  you  up  and  throw  their  old  William 
Penn  in  their  Dutch  faces,  and  tell  'em  be  blowed  to 
'em!  Tell  'em  you  don't  want  their  blamed  old 
school— and  you  're  goin'  to  Europe,  you  are !  To  Eu- 
rope, yet ! ' ' 

He  seized  her  hand  as  he  spoke  and  almost  pulled 
her  to  the  store  door. 

"Do  it,  Tillie!"  cried  Fairchilds,  stepping  after 
them  across  the  store.  "Present  your  resignation 
before  they  have  a  chance  to  vote  you  out!  Do  it!" 
he  said  eagerly. 

Tillie  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  men 
before  her,  excitement  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  her 
breath  coming  short  and  fast. 

"I  will!" 

Turning  away,  she  ran  down  the  steps,  sped  across 
the  street,  and  disappeared  in  the  hotel. 

The  doctor  expressed  his  overflowing  feelings  by 
giving  Fairchilds  a  resounding  slap  on  the  shoulders. 
' '  By  gum,  I  'd  like  to  be  behind  the  skeens  and  witness 
Jake  Getz  gettin'  fooled  ag'in!  This  is  the  most  fun 
I  had  since  I  got  'em  to  wote  you  five  dollars  a  month 
extry,  Teacher!"  he  chuckled.  "Golly!  I  'm  glad 
you  got  here  in  time!  It  was  certainly,  now,"  he 
added  piously,  "the  hand  of  Providence  that  led 
you!" 

327 


XXVI 

TILLIE'S  LAST  FIGHT 

'"TTTE  are  now  ready  to  wote  fer  the  teacher  fer 

?  f  William  Penn  fer  the  spring  term,"  announced 
the  president  of  the  Board,  when  all  the  preliminary 
business  of  the  meeting  had  been  disposed  of;  "and 
before  we  perceed  to  that  dooty,  we  will  be  glad  to 
hear  any  remarks." 

The  members  looked  at  Mr.  Getz,  and  he  promptly 
rose  to  his  feet  to  make  the  speech  which  all  were 
expecting  from  him — the  speech  which  was  to  sum  up 
the  reasons  why  his  daughter  should  not  be  reflected 
for  another  term  to  William  Penn.  As  all  these  rea- 
sons had  been  expounded  many  times  over  in  the  past 
few  months,  to  each  individual  school  director,  Mr. 
Getz's  statements  to-night  were  to  be  merely  a  more 
forcible  repetition  of  his  previous  arguments. 

But  scarcely  had  he  cleared  his  throat  to  begin,  when 
there  was  a  knock  on  the  door ;  it  opened,  and,  to  their 
amazement,  Tillie  walked  into  the  room.  Her  eyes 
sparkling,  her  face  flushed,  her  head  erect,  she  came 
straight  across  the  room  to  the  table  about  which  the 
six  educational  potentates  were  gathered. 

That  she  had  come  to  plead  her  own  cause,  to  beg 
to  be  retained  at  her  post,  was  obviously  the  object 

328 


Tillie's  last  fight 


of  this  intrusion  upon  the  sacred  privacy  of  their 
weighty  proceedings. 

Had  that,  in  very  truth,  been  her  purpose  in  coming 
to  them,  she  would  have  found  little  encouragement 
in  the  countenances  before  her.  Every  one  of  them 
seemed  to  stiffen  into  grim  disapproval  of  her  un- 
filial  act  in  thus  publicly  opposing  her  parent. 

But  there  was  something  in  the  girl 's  presence  as  she 
stood  before  them,  some  potent  spell  in  her  fresh  girl- 
ish beauty,  and  in  the  dauntless  spirit  which  shone 
in  her  eyes,  that  checked  the  words  of  stern  reproof 
as  they  sprang  to  the  lips  of  her  judges. 

"John  Kettering," — her  clear,  soft  voice  addressed 
the  Amish  president  of  the  Board,  adhering,  in  her 
use  of  his  first  name,  to  the  mode  of  address  of  all  the 
"plain"  sects  of  the  county,— "have  I  your  permis- 
sion to  speak  to  the  Board  ? ' ' 

"It  would  n't  be  no  use."  The  president  frowned 
and  shook  his  head.  "The  wotes  of  this  here  Board 
can't  be  influenced.  There  's  no  use  your  wastin' 
any  talk  on  us.  We  're  here  to  do  our  dooty  by  the 
risin'  generation."  Mr.  Kettering,  in  his  character 
of  educator,  was  very  fond  of  talking  about  "the  ris- 
ing generation."  "And,"  he  added,  "what  's  right  's 
right." 

"As  your  teacher  at  William  Penn,  I  have  a  state- 
ment to  make  to  the  Board,"  Tillie  quietly  persisted. 
"It  will  take  me  but  a  minute.  I  am  not  here  to  try 
to  influence  the  vote  you  are  about  to  take." 

"If  you  ain't  here  to  influence  our  wotes,  what  are 
you  here  fer?" 

329 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"That  's  what  I  ask  your  permission  to  tell  the 
Board." 

"Well,"  John  Kettering  reluctantly  conceded,  "I  '11 
give  you  two  minutes,  then.  Go  on.  But  you  need  n  't 
try  to  get  us  to  wote  any  way  but  the  way  our  con- 
science leads  us  to." 

Tillie 's  eyes  swept  the  faces  before  her,  from  the 
stern,  set  features  of  her  father  on  her  left,  to  the 
mild-faced,  long-haired,  hooks-and-eyes  Amishman  on 
her  right.  The  room  grew  perfectly  still  as  they  stared 
at  her  in  expectant  curiosity;  for  her  air  and  man- 
ner did  not  suggest  the  humble  suppliant  for  their 
continued  favor,— rather  a  self-confidence  that  instinc- 
tively excited  their  stubborn  opposition.  ' '  She  '11  see 
oncet  if  she  kin  do  with  us  what  she  wants,"  was  the 
thought  in  the  minds  of  most  of  them. 

"I  am  here,"  Tillie  spoke  deliberately  and  dis- 
tinctly, "to  tender  my  resignation." 

There  was  dead  silence. 

"I  regret  that  I  could  not  give  you  a  month's  notice, 
according  to  the  terms  of  my  agreement  with  you.  But 
I  could  not  foresee  the  great  good  fortune  that  was 
about  to  befall  me." 

Not  a  man  stirred,  but  an  ugly  look  of  malicious 
chagrin  appeared  upon  the  face  of  Nathaniel  Puntz. 
Was  he  foiled  in  his  anticipated  revenge  upon  the  girl 
who  had  "turned  down"  his  Absalom?  Mr.  Getz  sat 
stiff  and  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Tillie. 

"I  resign  my  position  at  William  Penn,"  Tillie  re- 
peated, "to  go  to  Europe  for  four  months'  travel  with 
Miss  Margaret. " 

33° 


Tillie's  last  fight 


Again  she  swept  them  with  her  eyes.  Her  father's 
face  was  apoplectic;  he  was  leaning  forward,  trying 
to  speak,  but  he  was  too  choked  for  utterance.  Na- 
thaniel Puntz  looked  as  though  a  wet  sponge  had  been 
dashed  upon  his  sleek  countenance.  The  other  direc- 
tors stared,  dumfounded.  This  case  had  no  prece- 
dent in  their  experience.  They  were  at  a  loss  how  to 
take  it. 

"My  resignation,"  Tillie  continued,  "must  take 
effect  immediately — to-night.  I  trust  you  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  getting  a  substitute." 

She  paused — there  was  not  a  movement  or  a  sound 
in  the  room. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  attention."  Tillie  bowed, 
turned,  and  walked  across  the  room.  Not  until  she 
reached  the  door  was  the  spell  broken.  With  her  hand 
on  the  knob,  she  saw  her  father  rise  and  start  toward 
her. 

She  had  no  wish  for  an  encounter  with  him ;  quickly 
she  went  out  into  the  hall,  and,  in  order  to  escape  him, 
she  opened  the  street  door,  stepped  out,  and  closed  it 
very  audibly  behind  her.  Then  hurrying  in  at  the 
adjoining  door  of  the  bar-room,  she  ran  out  to  the 
hotel  kitchen,  where  she  knew  she  would  find  her 
aunt. 

Mrs.  Wackernagel  was  alone,  washing  dishes  at  the 
gink.  She  looked  up  with  a  start  at  Tillie's  hurried 
entrance,  and  her  kindly  face  showed  distress  as  she 
saw  who  it  was;  for,  faithful  to  the  Rules,  she 
would  not  speak  to  this  backslider  and  excommunicant 
from  the  faith.  But  Tillie  went  straight  up  to  her, 

331 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

threw  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  pressed  her  lips 
to  her  aunt's  cheek. 

"Aunty  Em!  I  can't  go  away  without  saying 
good-by  to  you.  I  am  going  to  Europe!  To  Eu- 
rope, Aunty  Em!"  she  cried.  The  words  sounded 
unreal  and  strange  to  her,  and  she  repeated  them 
to  make  their  meaning  clear  to  herself.  "Miss 
Margaret  has  sent  for  me  to  take  me  with  her 
to  Europe!" 

She  rapidly  told  her  aunt  all  that  had  happened, 
and  Mrs.  Wackernagel's  bright,  eager  face  of  delight 
expressed  all  the  sympathy  and  affection  which  Tillie 
craved  from  her,  but  which  the  Mennonite  dared  not 
utter. 

"Aunty  Em,  no  matter  where  I  go  or  what  may  be- 
fall me,  I  shall  never  forget  your  love  and  kindness. 
I  shall  remember  it  always,  always." 

Aunty  Em's  emotions  were  stronger,  for  the  mo- 
ment, than  her  allegiance  to  the  Rules,  and  her  moth- 
erly arms  drew  the  girl  to  her  bosom  and  held  her 
there  in  a  long,  silent  embrace. 

She  refrained,  however,  from  kissing  her ;  and  pres- 
ently Tillie  drew  herself  away  and,  dashing  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  went  out  of  the  house  by  the  back 
kitchen  door.  From  here  she  made  her  way,  in  a 
roundabout  fashion,  to  the  rear  entrance  of  the  store- 
keeper's house  across  the  road,  for  she  was  quite  sure 
that  her  father  had  gone  into  the  store  in  search  of 
her. 

Cautiously  stepping  into  the  kitchen,  she  found 
Fairchilds  restlessly  pacing  the  floor,  and  he  greeted 

332 


Tillie's  last  fight 


her  return  with  a  look  of  mingled  pleasure  and  ap- 
prehension. 

"Your  father  is  out  front,  in  the  store,  Tillie,"  he 
whispered,  coming  close  to  her.  "He  's  looking  for 
you.  He  does  n't  know  I  'm  in  town,  of  course.  Come 
outside  and  I  '11  tell  you  our  plan." 

He  led  the  way  out  of  doors,  and  they  sought  the 
seclusion  of  a  grape-arbor  far  down  the  garden. 

"We  '11  leave  it  to  the  Doc  to  entertain  your  father," 
Fairchilds  went  on;  "you  will  have  to  leave  here  with 
me  to-night,  Tillie,  and  as  soon  as  possible,  for  your 
father  will  make  trouble  for  us.  We  may  as  well 
avoid  a  conflict  with  him — especially  for  your  sake. 
For  myself,  I  should  n't  mind  it!"  He  smiled 
grimly. 

He  was  conscious,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  Tillie's  fair 
face  under  the  evening  light,  of  a  reserve  in  her  atti- 
tude toward  him  that  was  new  to  her.  It  checked  his 
warm  impulse  to  take  her  hands  in  his  and  tell  her 
how  glad  he  was  to  see  her  again. 

"How  can  we  possibly  get  away  to-night?"  she 
asked  him.  ' '  There  are  no  stages  until  the  morning. ' ' 

"We  shall  have  to  let  the  Doc's  fertile  brain  solve 
it  for  us,  Tillie.  He  has  a  plan,  I  believe.  Of  course, 
if  we  have  to  wait  until  morning  and  fight  it  out  with 
your  father,  then  we  '11  have  to,  that  's  all.  But  I 
hope  that  may  be  avoided  and  that  we  may  get  away 
quietly." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Suddenly 
Fairchilds  leaned  toward  her  and  spoke  to  her 
earnestly. 

333 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Tillie,  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  Please  tell 
me — why  did  you  never  answer  my  letters?" 

She  lifted  her  startled  eyes  to  his.    ' '  Your  letters  ? ' ' 

"Yes.    Why  did  n't  you  write  to  me?" 

"You  wrote  to  me?"  she  asked  incredulously. 

"I  wrote  you  three  times.  You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  you  never  got  my  letters?" 

"I  never  heard  from  you.  I  would — I  would  have 
been  so  glad  to!" 

"But  how  could  you  have  missed  getting  them?" 

Her  eyes  fell  upon  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap, 
and  her  cheeks  grew  pale. 

"My  father,"  she  half  whispered. 

"He  kept  them  from  you?" 

"It  must  have  b'een  so." 

Fairchilds  looked  very  grave.  He  did  not  speak 
at  once. 

"How  can  you  forgive  such  things?"  he  presently 
asked.  "One  tenth  of  the  things  you  have  had  to  bear 
would  have  made  an  incarnate  fiend  of  me ! ' ' 

She  kept  her  eyes  downcast  and  did  not  answer. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  "how  bitterly  dis- 
appointed I  was  when  I  did  n't  hear  from  you.  I 
could  n't  understand  why  you  did  n't  write.  And  it 
gave  me  a  sense  of  disappointment  in  you.  I  thought 
I  must  have  overestimated  the  worth  of  our  friendship 
in  your  eyes.  I  see  now — and  indeed  in  my  heart  I  al- 
ways knew— that  I  did  you  injustice." 

She  did  not  look  up,  but  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  in 
long  breaths. 

"There  has  not  been  a  day,"  he  said,  "that  I  have 

334 


Tillie's  last  fight 


not  thought  of  you,  and  wished  I  knew  all  about  you 
and  could  see  you  and  speak  with  you — Tillie,  what 
a  haunting  little  personality  you  are!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  then, — a  soft  fire  in  them  that 
set  his  pulse  to  bounding.  But  before  she  could  an- 
swer him  they  were  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  quick 
steps  coming  down  the  board  walk  toward  the  arbor. 
Tillie  started  like  a  deer  ready  to  flee,  but  Fairchilds 
laid  a  reassuring  hand  upon  hers. 

"It  's  the  Doc,"  he  said. 

The  faithful  old  fellow  joined  them,  his  finger  on  his 
lips  to  warn  them  to  silence. 

"Don't  leave  no  one  hear  us  out  here!  Jake  Getz 
he  's  went  over  to  the  hotel  to  look  fer  Tillie,  but 
he  '11  be  back  here  in  a  jiffy,  and  we  Ve  got  to  hurry 
on.  Tillie,  you  go  on  up  and  pack  your  clo'es  in  a 
walise  or  whatever,  and  hurry  down  here  back.  I  'm 
hitchin'  my  buggy  fer  yous  as  quick  as  I  kin.  I  '11 
leave  yous  borry  the  loan  of  it  off  of  me  till  to-mor- 
row—then, Teacher,  you  kin  fetch  it  over  ag'in. 
Ain't?" 

"All  right,  Doc;  you  're  a  brick!" 

Tillie  sped  into  the  house  to  obey  the  doctor's  bid- 
ding, and  Fairchilds  went  with  him  across  the  street 
to  the  hotel  stables. 

In  the  course  of  ten  minutes  the  three  conspirators 
were  together  again  in  the  stable-yard  behind  the  store, 
the  doctor's  horse  and  buggy  ready  before  them. 

"Father  's  in  the  store— I  heard  his  voice,"  panted 
Tillie,  as  Fairchilds  took  her  satchel  from  her  and 
stowed  it  in  the  back  of  the  buggy. 

335 


Tillie:  A  Mennonite  Maid 

"Hurry  on,  then,"  whispered  the  doctor,  hoarsely, 
pushing  them  both,  with  scant  ceremony,  into  the 
carriage.  "Good-by  to  yous— and  good  luck!  Och, 
that  's  all  right;  no  thanks  necessary!  I  'm  tickled 
to  the  end  of  my  hair  at  gettin'  ahead  of  Jake  Gretz! 
Say,  Fairchilds,"  he  said,  with  a  wink,  "this  here 
mare  's  wonderful  safe — you  don't  have  to  hold  the 
reins  with  both  hands !  See?" 

And  he  shook  in  silent  laughter  at  his  own  del- 
icate and  delicious  humor,  as  he  watched  them  start 
out  of  the  yard  and  down  the  road  toward  Millersville. 

For  a  space  there  was  no  sound  but  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  hoofs  and  the  rattle  of  the  buggy  wheels ;  but 
in  the  heart  of  the  Mennonite  maid,  who  had  fought 
her  last  battle  for  freedom  and  won,  there  was  inef- 
fable peace  and  content;  and  her  happiness  smiled 
from  quivering  lips  and  shone  in  her  steadfast  eyes. 

MB.  ABE  WACKERNAGEL,  of  the  New  Canaan  hotel,  was 
very  fond,  in  the  years  that  followed,  of  bragging  to 
his  transient  guests  of  his  niece  who  was  the  wife 
of  "such  a  Millersville  Normal  perfessor — Perfessor 
Fairchilds."  And  Mr.  Jake  Getz  was  scarcely  less 
given  to  referring  to  his  daughter  "where  is  married 
to  such  a  perfessor  at  the  Normal." 

"But  what  do  /  get  out  of  it?"  he  was  wont  rue- 
fully to  add.  "Where  do  I  come  in,  yet? — I  where 
raised  her  since  she  was  born,  a 'ready  ?" 


336 


BOOKS  ON  NATURE  STUDY  BY 

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THE  KINDRED  OF  THE  WILD.  A  Book  of  Animal  Life. 
With  illustrations  by  Charles  Livingston  BuIL 

Appeals  alike  to  the  young  and  to  the  merely  youthful-hearted. 
Close  observation.  Graphic  description.  We  get  a  sense  of  the 
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THE  HEART  OF  THE  ANCIENT  WOOD.    Illustrated. 

This  book  strikes  a  new  note  in  lit  erature.  It  is  a  realistic  romance 
of  the  folk  of  the  forest — a  romance  of  the  alliance  of  peace  between 
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beasts  who  felt  her  spell  and  became  her  friends.  It  is  not  fanciful, 
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music  of  the  forest,  the  power  of  the  shady  silences,  the.dignity  of  the 
beasts  who  live  closest  to  the  heart  of  the  wood. 

THE  WATCHERS  OF  THE  TRAILS.  A  companion  volume 
to  the  "  Kindred  of  the  Wild."  With  48  full  page  plates 
and  decorations  from  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

These  stories  are  exquisite  in  their  refinement,  and  yet  robust  in 
their  appreciation  of  some  of  the  rougher  phases  of  woodcraft.  "This 
is  a  book  full  of  delight.  An  additional  charm  lies  in  Mr.  Bull'sfaith- 
ful  and  graphic  illustrations,  which  in  fashion  all  their  own  tell  the 
story  of  the  wild  life,  illuminating  and  supplementing  the  pen  pictures 
of  the  authors."— Literary  Digest. 

RED  FOX.  The  Story  of  His  Adventurous  Career  in  the  Ring- 
waak  Wilds,  and  His  Triumphs  over  the  Enemies  of  His 
Kind.  Wth  50  illustrations,  including  frontispiece  in  color 
and  cover  design  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

A  brilliant  chapter  in  natural  history.  Infinitely  more  wholesome 
reading  than  the  average  tale  of  sport,  since  it  gives  a  glimpse  of  the 
hunt  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  hunted.  "  True  in  substance  but 
fascinating  as  fiction.  It  will  interest  old  and  young,  city-bound  and 
free-footed,  those  who  know  animals  and  those  who  do  not." — 
Chicago  Record- Herald. 

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NEDRA,  by  George  Barr  McCutcheon,  with  color  frontispiece, 
and  other  illustrations  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

The  story  of  an  elopement  of  a  young  couple  from  Chicago,  who 
decide  to  go  to  London,  travelling  as  brother  and  sister.  Their  diffi- 
culties commence  in  New  York  and  become  greatly  exaggerated 
when  they  are  shipwrecked  in  mid-ocean.  The  hero  finds  himself 
stranded  on  the  island  of  Nedra  with  another  girl,  whom  he  has 
rescued  by  mistake.  The  story  gives  an  account  of  their  finding 
some  of  the  other  passengers,  and  the  circumstances  which  resulted 
from  the  strange  mix-up. 

POWER  LOT,  by  Sarah  P.  McLean  Greene.    Illustrated. 

The  story  of  the  reformation  of  a  man  and  his  restoration  to  self- 
respect  through  the  power  of  honest  labor,  the  exercise  of  honest  in- 
dependence, and  the  aid  of  clean,  healthy,  out-of-door  life  and  sur- 
roundings. The  characters  take  hold  of  the  heart  and  win  sympathy. 
The  dear  old  story  has  never  been  more  lovingly  and  artistically  told. 

MY  MAMIE  ROSE.      The  History   of  My   Regeneration,  by 
Owen  Kildare.     Illustrated. 

This  autobiography  is  a  powerful  book  of  love  and  sociology.  Reads 
like  the  strangest  fiction.  Is  the  strongest  truth  and  deals  with  the 
story  of  a  man's  redemption  through  a  woman's  love  and  devotion. 

JOHN  BURT,  by  Frederick  Upham  Adams,  with  illustration*. 

John  Burt,  a  New  England  lad,  goes  West  to  seek  his  fortune  and 
finds  it  in  gold  mining.  He  becomes  one  of  the  financial  factors  and 
pitilessly  crushes  his  enemies.  The  story  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
manipulations  was  never  more  vividly  and  engrossingly  told.  A  love 
siory  runs  through  the  book,  and  is  handled  with  infinite  skill. 

THE  HEART  LINE,  by  Gelett  Burgess,  with  halftone  illustra- 
tions by  Lester  Ralph,  and  inlay  cover  in  colors. 

A  great  dramatic  story  of  the  city  that  was.  A  story  of  Bohemian 
life  in  San  Francisco,  before  the  disaster,  presented  with  mirror-likr 
accuracy.  Compressed  into  it  are  all  the  sparkle,  all  the  gayety,  all 
the  wila,  whirling  life  of  the  glad,  mad,  bad,  and  most  delightful  city 
of  the  Golden  Gate. 

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CAROLINA  LEE.    By  Lillian  Bell.    With  frontispiece  by  Dora 
Wheeler  Keith. 

Carolina  Lee  is  the  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  of  Christian  Science.  Its 
keynote  is  "  Divine  Love"  in  the  understanding  of  the  knowledge  of 
all  good  things  which  may  be  obtainable.  When  the  tale  is  told!  the 
sick  healed,  wrong  changed  to  right,  poverty  of  purse  and  spirit 
turned  into  riches,  lovers  made  worthy  of  each  other  and  happily 
united,  including  Carolina  Lee  and  her  affinity,  it  is  borne  upon  the 
reader  that  he  has  been  giving  rapid  attention  to  a  free  lecture  on 
Christian  Science ;  that  the  working  out  of  each  character  is  an  argu- 
ment for  "  Faith ;"  and  that  the  theory  is  persuasively  attractive. 

A  Christian  Science  novel  that  will  bring  delight  to  the  heart  of 
every  believer  in  that  faith.  It  is  a  well  told  story,  entertaining,  and 
cleverly  mingles  art,  humor  and  sentiment 

HILMA,  by  William  Tillinghast   Eldridge,  with  illustrations  by 
Harrison  Fisher  and  Martin  Justice,  and  inlay  cover. 

It  is  a  rattling  good  tale,  written  with  charm,  and  full  of  remark- 
able happenings,  dangerous  doings,  strange  events,  jealous  intrigues 
and  sweet  love  making.  The  reader's  interest  is  not  permitted  to  lag, 
but  is  taken  up  and  carried  on  from  incident  to  incident  with  ingenu- 
ity and  contagious  enthusiasm.  The  story  gives  us  the  Graustark 
and  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  thrill,  but  the  tale  is  treated  with  fresh- 
ness, ingenuity,  and  enthusiasm,  and  the  climax  is  both  unique  and 
satisfying.  It  will  hold  the  fiction  lover  close  to  every  page. 

THE   MYSTERY    OF    THE    FOUR    FINGERS,  by  Fred  M. 
White,  with  halftone  illustrations   by  Will  Grefe. 

A  fabulously  rich  gold  mine  in  Mexico  is  known  by  the  picturesque 
and  mysterious  name  of  The  Pour  Fingers.  It  originally  belonged 
to  an  Aztec  tribe,  and  its  location  is  known  to  one  surviving  descendant 
—a  man  possessing  wonderful  occult  power.  Should  any  person  un- 
lawfully discover  its  whereabouts,  four  of  his  fingers  are  mysteriously 
removed,  and  one  by  one  returned  to  him.  The  appearance  of  the 
final  fourth  betokens  his  swift  and  violent  death. 

Surprises,  strange  and  startling,  are  concealed  in  every  chapter  of 
this  completely  engrossing  detective  story.  The  horrible  fascination 
of  the  tragedy  holds  one  in  rapt  attention  to  the  end.  And  through 
it  runs  the  thread  of  a  curious  love  story. 

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MEREDITH   NICHOLSON'S 
FASCINATING  ROMANCES 

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THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  CANDLES.    With  a  frontis- 
piece  in  color*  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

A  novel  of  romance  and  adventure,  of  love  and  valor,  of  mystery  and 
hidden  treasure.  The  hero  is  required  to  spend  a  whole  year  in  the 
isolated  house,  which  according  to  his  grandfather's  will  shall  then 
become  his.  If  the  terms  of  the  will  be  violated  the  house  goes  to  a 
young  woman  whom  the  will,  furthermore,  forbids  him  to  marry. 
Nobody  can  guess  the  secret,  and  the  whole  plot  moves  along  with 
an  exciting  zip. 

THE  PORT  OF  MISSING  MEN.    With  illustration,  by   Clar- 
ence F.  Underwood. 

There  is  romance  of  love,  mystery,  plot,  and  fighting,  and  a  breath- 
less dash  and  go  about  the  telling  which  makes  one  quite  forget 
about  the  improbabilities  of  the  story ;  and  it  all  ends  in  the  old- 
fashioned  healthy  American  way.  Shirley  is  a  sweet,  courageous 
heroine  whose  shining  eyes  lure  from  page  to  page. 

ROSALIND  AT  REDGATE.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

The  author  of  "  The  House  of  a  Thousand  Candles "  has  here 
given  us  a  bouyant  romance  brimming  with  lively  humor  and  opti- 
mism ;  with  mystery  that  breeds  adventure  and  ends  in  love  and  hap- 
piness. A  most  entertaining  and  delightful  book. 

THE  MAIN  CHANCE.     With  illustrations  by  Harrison  Fisher. 

A  "  traction  deal "  in  a  Western  city  is  the  pivot  about  which  the 
action  of  this  clever  story  revolves.  But  it  is  in  the  character-draw- 
ing of  the  principals  that  the  author's  strength  lies.  Exciting  inci- 


:  says :  "  We  commend  it  for  its  workmanship — for  its 
smoothness,  its  sensible  fancies,  and  for  its  general  charm." 

ZELDA  DAMERON.      With  portraits  of  the  characters  by 
John  Cecil  Clay. 

"  A  picture  of  the  new  West,  at  once  startling^y  and  attractively1 
true.  »  *  *  The  heroine  is  a  strange,  sweet  mixture  of  pride,  wil- 
fulness  and  lovable  courage.  The  characters  are  superbly  drawn ;  the 
atmosphere  is  convincing.  There  is  about  it  a  sweetness,  a  whole- 
someness  and  a  sturdiness  that  commends  it  to  earnest,  kindly  and 
wholesome  people."— Boston  Transcript. 

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BRILLIANT  AND  SPIRITED  NOVELS 

AGNES  AND  EGERTON  CASTLE 

Handsomely  bound  in  clotL     Price,  75  cents  per  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO.    Being  a  Memoir  of  Captain  Basil 
Jennico. 

"  What  separates  it  from  most  books  of  its  class  is  its  distinction 
of  manner,  its  unusual  grace  of  diction,  its  delicacy  of  touch,  and  the 
fervent  charm  of  its  love  passages.  It  is  a  very  attractive  piece  of 
romantic  fiction  relying  for  its  effect  upon  character  rather  than  inci- 
dent, and  upon  vivid  dramatic  presentation." — The  Dial.  "  A  stirring, 
brilliant  and  dashing  story."—  The  Oatlook. 

THE  SECRET  ORCHARD.  Illustrated  by  Charles  D.  William.. 

The  "  Secret  Orchard  "  is  set  in  the  midst  of  the  ultra  modern  society. 
The  scene  is  in  Paris,  but  most  of  the  characters  are  English  speak- 
ing. The  story  was  dramatized  in  London,  and  in  it  the  Kendalls 
scored  a  great  theatrical  success. 

"  Artfully  contrived  and  full  of  romantic  charm  *  *  *  it  pos- 
sesses ingenuity  of  incident,  a  figurative  designation  of  the  unhal- 
lowed scenes  in  which  unlicensed  love  accomplishes  and  wrecks  faith 
and  happiness." — Athenaeum. 

YOUNG  APRIL.    With  illustrations  by  A.  B.  Wenzell. 

"  It  is  everything  that  a  good  romance  should  be,  and  it  carries 
about  it  an  air  of  distinction  both  rare  and  delightful." — Chicago 
Tribune.  "  With  regret  one  turns  to  the  last  page  of  this  delightful 
novel,  so  delicate  in  its  romance,  so  brilliant  in  its  episodes,  so  spark- 
ling in  its  art,  and  so  exquisite  in  its  diction. " —  Worcester  Spy. 

FLOWER  O'  THE  ORANGE.    With  frontispiece. 

We  have  learned  to  expect  from  these  fertile  authors  novels  grace- 
ful in  form,  brisk  in  movement,  and  romantic  in  conception.  This 
carries  the  reader  bock  to  the  days  of  the  bewigged  and  beruffled 
gallants  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  tells  him  of  feats  of  arms  and 
adventures  in  love  as  thrilling  and  picturesque,  yet  delicate,  as  the 
utmost  seeker  of  romance  may  ask. 

MY  MERRY  ROCKHURST.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  E.  Becher. 

In  the  eight  stories  of  a  courtier  of  King  Charles  Second,  which  are 
here  gathered  together,  the  Castles  are  at  their  best,  reviving  all  the 
fragrant  charm  of  those  books,  like  The  Pride  of  Jennico,  in  which 
they  first  showed  an  instinct,  amounting  to  genius,  for  sunny  romances. 
The  book  is  absorbing  *  *  *  and  is  as  spontaneous  in  feeling  as  it  is 
artistic  in  execution."— New  York  Tribune. 

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THE  CATTLE  BARON'S  DAUGHTER.    A  Novel.  By  Harold 
Bindloss.    With  illustrations  by  David  Ericson. 

A  story  of  the  fight  for  the  cattle-ranges  of  the  West.  Intense  in- 
terest is  aroused  by  its  pictures  of  life  in  the  cattle  country  at  that 
critical  moment  of  transition  when  the  great  tracts  of  land  used  for 
grazing  were  taken  up  by  the  incoming  homesteaders,  with  the  in- 
evitable result  of  fierce  contest,  of  passionate  emotion  on  both  sides, 
find  of  final  triumph  of  the  inevitable  tendency  of  the  times. 

WINSTON  OF  THE  PRAIRIE.    With  illustrations  in  color  by 
W.  Herbert  Dunton. 

A  man  of  upright  character,  young  and  clean,  but  badly  worsted 
(n  the  battle  of  life,  consents  as  a  desperate  resort  to  impersonate  for 
9.  period  a  man  of  his  own  age — scoundrelly  in  character  but  of  an 
aristocratic  and  moneyed  family.  The  better  man  finds  himself  barred 
from  resuming  his  old  name.  How,  coming  into  the  other  man's  pos- 
sessions, he  wins  the  respect  of  all  men,  and  the  love  of  a  fastidious, 
delicately  nurtured  girl,  is  the  thread  upon  which  the  story  hangs.  It 
is  one  of  the  best  novels  of  the  West  that  has  appeared  for  years. 

THAT  MAINWARING  AFFAIR.      By  A.  Maynard  Barbour. 
With  illustrations  by  E.  Plaisted  Abbott. 

A  novel  with  a  most  intricate  and  carefully  unraveled  plot.  A 
naturally  probable  and  excellently  developed  story  and  the  reader 
will  follow  the  fortunes  of  each  character  with  unabating  interest 
*  *  j|*  the  interest  is  keen  at  the  close  of  the  first  chapter  and  in- 
creases to  the  end. 

AT  THE  TIME  APPOINTED.    With  a  frontispiece  m  colors 
by  J.  H.  Marchand. 

The  fortunes  of  a  young  mining  engineer  who  through  an  accident 
loses  his  memory  and  identity.  In  his  new  character  and  under  his 
new  name,  the  hero  lives  a  new  life  of  struggle  |and  [adventure.  The 
volume  will  be  found  highly  entertaining  by  those  who  appreciate  a 
thoroughly  good  story. 

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size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra- 
tions of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

THE  CIRCULAR  STAIRCASE,  By  Mary  Roberts  Reinhart 

With  illustrations  by  Lester  Ralph. 

Jn  an  extended  notice  the  New  York  Sun  says :  "  To  readers 
•who  care  for  a  really  good  detective  story  '  The  Circular  Stair- 
case '  can  be  recommended  without  reservation.  The  Philadelphia 
Record  declares  that  "  The  Circular  Staircase  "  deserves  the  laur- 
els for  thrills,  for  weirdness  and  things  unexplained  and  inexplicable. 

THE  RED  YEAR,  By  Louis  Tracy 

"  Mr.  Tracyfgives  by  far  the  most  realistic  and  impressive  pic- 
tures of  the  horrors  and  heroisms  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  that 
has  been  available  in  any  book  of  the  kind  *  *  *  •  There  has  not 
been  in  modern  times  in  the  history  of  any  land  scenes  so  fear- 
ful, so  picturesque,  so  dramatic,  and  Mr.  Tracy  draws  them  as 
with  the  pencil  of  a  Verestschagin  of  the  pen  of  a  Sienkiewics." 

ARMS  AND  THE  WOMAN,  By  Harold  MacGrath 

With  inlay  cover  in  colors  by  Harrison  Fisher. 
The  story  is  a  blending  of  the  romance  and  adventure  of  the 
middle  ages  with  nineteenth  century  men  and  women ;  and  they  are 
creations  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  not  mere  pictures  of  past  centuries. 
The  story  is  about  Jack  Winthrop,  a  newspaper  man.  Mr.  Mac- 
Grath's  finest  bit  of  character  drawing  is  seen  in  Hillars,  the  bro- 
ken down  newspaper  man,  and  Jack's  chum. 

LOVE  IS  THE  SUM  OF  IT  ALL,  By  Gco.  Cary  Eggleston 

With  illustrations  by  Hermann  Heyer. 

In  this  "  plantation  romance  "  Mr.  Eggleston  has  resumed  the 
manner  and  method  that  made  his  "  Dorothy  South  "  one  of  the 
most  famous  books  of  its  time. 

There  are  three  tender  love  stories  embodied  in  it,  and  two 
unusually  interesting  heroines,  utterly  unlike  each  other,  but  each 
possessed  of  a  peculiar  fascination  which  wins  and  holds  the  read- 
er's sympathy.  A  pleasing  vein  of  gentle  humor  runs  through  the 
work,  but  the  "  sum  of  it  all "  is  an  intensely  sympathetic  love  story. 

HEARTS  AND  THE  CROSS,   By  Harold  Morton  Cramer 

With  illustrations  by  Harold  Matthews  Brett. 
The  hero  is  an  unconventional  preacher  who  follows  the  line  of 
the  Man  of  Galilee,  associating  with  the  lowly,  and  working  for 
them  in  the  ways  that  may  best  serve  them.  He  is  not  recognized 
at  his  real  value  except  by  the  one  woman  who  saw  clearly.  Their 
love  story  is  one  of  the  refreshing  things  in  recent  fiction. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,     -     -     NEW  YORK 


FAMOUS    COPYRIGHT    BOOKS 
IN  POPULAR  PRICED  EDITIONS 

Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra- 
tions of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

A  SIX-CYLINDER  COURTSHIP,  By  Edw.  Sali«bury  Field 

With  a  color  frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher,  and  illustra- 
tions by  Clarence  F.  Underwood,  decorated  pages  and  end 
sheets.    Harrison  Fisher  head  in  colors  on  cover.    Boxed. 
A  story  of  cleverness.    It  is  a  jolly  good  romance  of  love  at 
first  sight  that  will  be  read  with  undoubted  pleasure.    Automobil- 
ing  figures  in  the  story  which  is  told  with  light,  bright  touches, 
while  a  happy  gift  of  humor  permeates  it  all. 

"  The  book  is  full  of  interesting  folks.  The  patois  of  the  garage  is 
•used  with  full  comic  and  realistic  effect,  and  effervescently,  cul- 
minating in  the  usual  happy  finish." — St.  Loui*  Mirror. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW, 

By  Gene  Stratton-Porter  Author  of  "  FRECKLES  - 

With  illustrations  in  color  by  Oliver  Kemp,  decorations  by 
Ralph  Fletcher  Seymour  and  inlay  cover  in  colors. 
%  The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrific- 
ing love;  the  friendship  that  gives  freely  without  return,  and  the 
love  that  seeks  first  the  happiness  of  the  object.  The  novel  is 
brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of  nature  and  its 
pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

JUDITH  OF  THE  CUMBERLANDS,  By  Alice  MacGowan 

With  illustrations  in  colors,  and  inlay  cover  by  GeorgeWright 
No  one  can  fail  to  enjoy  this  moving  tale  with  its  lovely  and  ar- 
dent heroine,  its  frank,  fearless  hero,  its  glowing  love  passages, 
and  its  variety  of  characters,  captivating  or  engaging  humorous 
or  saturnine,  villains,  rascals,  and  men  of  good  will.  A  tale  strong 
and  interesting  in  plot,  faithful  and  vivid  as  a  picture  of  wild 
mountain  life,  and  in  its  characterization  full  of  warmth  and  glow. 

A  MILLION  A  MINUTE,  By  Hudson  Douglas 

With  illustrations  by  Will  Gref  e. 

Has  the  catchiest  of  titles,  and  it  is  a  ripping  good  tale  from 
Chapter  I  to  Finis — no  weighty  problems  to  be  solved,  but  just  a 
fine  running  story,  full  of  exciting  incidents,  that  never  seemed 
strained  or  improbable.  It  is  a  dainty  love  yarn  involving  three 
men  and  a  girl.  There  is  not  a  dull  or  trite  situation  in  the  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,      -  NEW  YORK 


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